Gems' Entry
by s2lou
Summary: Compilation. KaitoAoko. —To-morrow, Yesterday, To-day: Kaito would watch, silent and still, back straight like an Egyptian cat's, ears twitching in rhythm with Aoko's pained little night-noises.
1. Realizing What It Means

Author's note:

**Author's note: Welcome, ladies and gents! This is S2lou's muse using her computer at night when she doesn't know it – she's been wanting to start this for **_**months**_** and she's never done it, so I just thought, ya know… I'll do it for her! (whistles gleefully) She's let me in the dark with this couple faaaar too long, and I've got faaaar too many ideas to let her linger more anytime more. So thou hast been warnt, KaitoAoko fangirl! I'm going to update this again and again!**

**Neither does she nor I own Detective Conan. Nonetheless, it is very certain that DC owns the heart we share.**

**-**

Realizing What It Means

**-**

It was a perfectly normal day when he woke up.

It was still a perfectly normal day when he got to school, walked past the door in his classroom, seated himself at his desk and began calling out for entering classmates. It was meant to be a perfectly normal day, like any other until then had always been…

But then Aoko came in, with Keiko and her usual laugh twitching her lips, and normality jumped right out the window.

She looked everyday-like, too – but somehow, as she noticed him, and came over with a sweet smile and a brush of her hand on his arm, she was an alien. The blue of her eyes met his carelessly, her mouth moved easily over a good morning, and he felt the fragrance of her perfume – the Aoko one, the one he'd associated with her every since they were children – hit him full force, leaving his mind numb and unable to come up with any thought but for one unexpected, terrifying, fabulous truth.

_I love you._

He hadn't seen that coming. He hadn't seen it coming. And yet, here it was now, already formed and already perfect – it wasn't discovering he had just fallen in love with her, it was realizing he'd been in love with her all along.

I love you…

One unexpected, terrifying, fabulous and very, very beautiful truth.

"Kaito? Are you okay?" she asked, her voice reaching concern. One hand worriedly laid down on his forearm, a black lock of hair astray on her forehead, which she pushed away with a slight jerk of the head, the blue of her eyes piercing suddenly through his like a violent light – and he was breathless again, he could see her lips moving and there was the urge to kiss her, unexpectedly…

_I love you. _

It seemed that she had always been that important to him, as far as his memories of her lay: a rose exchanged from one hand to another, sad eyes suddenly lighting up with marvel at the magic trick, the beauty of those immense blue eyes and childish face slowly growing to the young woman standing in front of him, hands on her sides and glaring at him, half-mocking and half-serious.

But he would never have her. That was realisation too, and it hit him just as hard as the first time over – she should never be his, no matter how much he wanted it, no matter how much he loved her, no matter how much he yearned to tell her the truth right here and now.

There was too much of Kid in him – too many heists already, too many lies, too many evenings when he'd drawn her father away. Half a minute ago it wouldn't have meant anything to him, but suddenly he realised – what he'd let himself in. And it was too late already to tell her – to late, because he'd been oblivious all along. Because their classmates' bridal march when they entered the room together, his mom's sad smiles when he talked of Nakamori-keibu's dumbness, Aoko's tears over the phone when he hadn't come to her birthday – they had been trying to tell him all along, and he'd laughed and pushed them away, like the stupid, hard-headed, stubborn fool he was.

"_Kaito?_"

"Uh?" he came back to earth with a jolt, just in time to see Aoko pout at him. Lord, was she lovely… would it matter so much if he kissed her now? Would it change so many things? "Yeah, what?"

"You've just been spacing out for a century and a half – what's going on in this head of yours? Get moving – class's about to start. Really," she muttered irritatingly as she dragged him over to his chair, "I feel like I'm your mother right now…"

He knew himself to be right in doing what he did – but he could be wrong for all that it mattered, if it meant losing her forever. And though she was so close to him right now, though there were her smile and her voice and her eyes for him to see and hear, he had already lost her. If she had ever, ever been for him to take – she no longer was; he'd destroyed all his chances with the own hands of Kaito Kid, magician extraordinaire.

"Kaito, what's going on with you? Is anything wrong?" She'd bent to him, leaning over the back of her chair and his desk. "Earth to Kaito… do you read me?" she was waving a hand in front of his face and he couldn't help but smile.

"No. Yes. I'm okay… I guess." Poker Face reminded itself firmly to him and he grinned suddenly, making her start. "Something's worrying me. I just can't figure it out." The words flew easily, making it up, working up his alibi. He was used to that. He was a thief after all – above it all, he was a thief from the head to toe.

"Maybe I can give you a hand," she said, looking relieved. "It isn't like you to bother about things. What's happening?"

"Well, you see, I was wondering—" One day, it would be over – when he'd find Pandora, when Kid would be safely guarded in a drawer never to reappear again—"—what colour it was today."

Flip.

"Oh, blue?"

"KAITO!!"

the day it'd be over, then maybe he'd get an extra chance—

"I'm SO going to kill you!" she yelled as she pursued him round the classroom, her brand-new mop swishing through the air just a hair's breadth from his skull. He jumped and ducked, easily, laughing. Laughing all the pain away, because that was what he was best at.

And he wouldn't let it go.

I love you…

-

**And that, dearest readers, is probably the beginning of it all. As it happens, it also is the beginning of this series. Thanks a thousand times for reading. (Reviews are the sunshine of my days - but not meaning to push you to or anything, of course ;) ******


	2. Blue Child: Beautiful

Author's note:

**Author's note: I told you I would update this series rapidly. (Not that rapidly, you think, yeah, well…) And just so you know, I am quite aware that this particular scheme about this particular couple has been visited and revisited a thousand times by the authors of this fandom, but this is my own version. Just because I've yearned to do it for centuries now.**

**Warnings: Slight, very slight swearing. Barely a line, really. And definitely fluff enough to make your brain explode.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Magic Kaito. But it owns me. That's all that there is.**

**-**

Blue Child: Beautiful

-

_I see,_

_Looking for yourself tonight_

_And I know,_

_Gonna sell your soul under the lights…_

It was raining down. Buckets.

No one sensible would dare adventure themselves under such a tempest, Kaito thought, looking out into the night from his armchair by the window. Lightening sometimes streaked past through the dark, looming clouds, like a dragon of gold in fire, pushing past its way in the sky before disappearing. And thunder rolled heavily, massively, threateningly, shaking the world. It would be madness to go under the deluge.

And yet the doorbell rang.

He laid Arsene Lupin aside on a tablet and got up to answer it. As he went, his well-trained mind instinctively went through the possibilities, finding it the most logical reason that somebody had been surprised by the storm and wanted shelter. But when he opened the door and found himself face to face with a _drenched_ Aoko, glaring at him through her bangs, the idea plummeted into non-significance.

He paused, laying his hand on top of the doorframe. "_Aoko? _What's going o—"

She didn't even let him finish his question. "Kaito," she cut in abruptly, "am I pretty?"

"What_?"_ He stared for a bit, then decided that a dry Aoko was better than a soaked Aoko – and all the more likely to be in a better mood, if anything – and grabbed her wrist to drag her inside. "Come on in; we can't stay on the landing. People will start thinking I'm some kind of deranged person – they already have suspicions…"

She shook away from his grip and walked past the hall and into the kitchen by the time he closed the door and locked it. He looked the way she had just disappeared, but detoured by the bathroom to fetch a towel before he followed her there.

"Here," he said, handing it to her; she was standing on the other side of the table, fists clenched by her sides, wet hair falling into her eyes. Her head was tilted down. "Get dry." She took it with numb fingers, looked at it a second, then laid it aside. Her eyes lifted back to him, deep blue through the dark black locks dripping on her face.

And I hear,

_The emptiness that echoes in your cries_

_Someday,_

_I pray that you will finally realize._

"You didn't answer my question," she said. There was this kind of funny look on her features again, fearing and yearning and furious together, as if desperate. "Answer me, Kaito. _Please."_

He sighed. "Where does this come from exactly? You show up on my doorstep, drenched to the bone, and start asking silly questions…" She shuddered, and he skirted round the table, worried, but she stepped back when he reached out for her. He could see her chin and lips trembling, and he wasn't sure that was from cold.

"_Answer_ me, Kaito," she insisted, in a voice that was definitely shaking. "Am I pretty?"

"Aoko…" he paused, searching for words that wouldn't break her down. "You're beautiful."

He couldn't have missed his aim farther away. His head was flung to the side, and his cheek burned, before he actually realized she had just slapped him. "Don't just tell me what I WANT to hear!" she yelled, and as he looked back at her bewilderedly he caught a glimpse of terrified blue eyes before she turned away and fled into the living-room.

He laid his hand on the table for support, touching his aching cheek. She'd slapped him with all her strength; there'd been no restraint in her gesture. She'd meant it wholeheartedly… his fist slammed down on the table and he followed her into the living-room.

She was standing with her back at him, arms folded, but when he came in she turned to him, angry eyes defying him to complain, to dodge the question with one of his usual evasions. A long tear, which she hadn't had time to wipe away and didn't even bother to deny, had left a dark streak on her cheek.

_You're beautiful,_

_That's all that I can say_

_Unforgettable,_

_I'm caught in every way._

He didn't care for long speeches about trust or friendship – he grabbed her wrist again and seated her forcefully on the sofa, drawing a chair for him to sit on opposite. "Now," he said in that kind of voice which allows no refusal, "you are going to tell me. _Everything_. And you're not going to hide a thing. Understood?"

She tried to hold the gaze for a second, then failed. Her head bent down again, and it was in this position, hair falling in her face and eyes hidden, that she began to speak. "I – (sniff) it was beginning to rain… and I was, you know, hurrying home, because they'd announced a storm and my dad's not at home tonight… and then I – I met girls from our college, and they started speaking about you, and what a hot chick you were, and how stupid I was to think you even _considered_ me as a friend…"

Kaito stiffened. Aoko didn't notice.

"Because 'Kuroba-kun' would evidently want a much more sexy girl than I was, of course, well, _admitting_ I was a girl, which they weren't so sure of since you say yourself all the time that I'm a boy—"

"_Damn," _he muttered, but she didn't hear him.

"And so they… they laughed when I said we weren't dating, and they said, of course we weren't, Kuroba-kun wouldn't even look at me like a woman, why would you consider me as a potential girlfriend," she was talking faster and faster, and he could see now the tears running unchecked down her cheeks, into her mouth, "you'd want a girl who would at least be_ pretty_, like them, and one of them said she was going to ask you out tomorrow, and she was certain you'd say yes since she was the head of your most influent fanclub – can you believe that?" she gasped with a short, rasping, joyless laugh, "you having fanclubs? You needn't be jealous of KID…"

She stopped suddenly and burst into fresh tears.

Don't ever let the mirror tell you lies

_Just look at your reflection through my eyes_

"Aoko…" He tried placing his hand on her shoulder, but she was shaking so hard it was useless. She didn't even feel him. She was lost to the world. Sighing, he stood up and walked to the window, watching out into the night; he could still hear her muffled voice stammering behind him.

"They started making comparisons…. they were talking about you…. not pretty…. what can I do about it…. I came here running, I couldn't think of anywhere else to go…. I'm sorry I slapped you…. didn't mean to…. these girls…. don't know what to do…. _Kaito…"_

You're beautiful.

"Aoko." He'd turned back to her and was leaning over to her; she gasped, started, and looked up at him with eyes so blue it hurt. "This isn't the first time this kind of thing occurs, is it?"

She looked caught out. "N-no…" she admitted, dipping her head. "H-how – how do you ?"

"I just know you too well," he sighed. "You wouldn't be in such a state if this hadn't happened… many, many times before. How long did they torment you like that? Weeks? _Months? And you never told me?"_

A small, hesitant, still sad smile fought its way up on her lips. "K-kaito, how do you always d-do that?"

It was his turn to be surprised. "Do what?"

"Read my thoughts like you do…" She took a deep breath, trying to dry her eyes. "B-but… what if they were r-right? What if I really was ugly? I know I'm not exactly G-god's gift to men, b-but… am I really such a tomboy?" She had got up, fidgeting, wringing her hands nervously.

"You always tell me I look like a b-boy – but I thought it was only teasing… b-but those… girls… they said that… they said that…"

It was really too bad. She was standing there saying nonsense, and what with the deep blue eyes the tears were shining through, the black hair running wet and locks dripping on her face, the rosy lips quivering over her words, the soaked clothes outlining her curves maybe a little more than was absolutely necessary – she was the most beautiful sight he'd ever beheld.

_It seems,_

_You always keep one foot outside the door_

_So sad,_

_You gotta all but still you long for more._

"Aoko, _stop_ it," he murmured, laying both his hands on her shoulders. He intended to shake them a little, but she looked caught enough, trying to wipe her tears with the palm of her hand. "You're _not_ going to let a couple of sluts grind you down that way, hear me?"

"But…"

"Aoko, you're not ugly simply because they told you so! Damn it, you're _stronger_ than this! Where's the Aoko I know, who'd laugh at them like they're just dirt – that's what _they_ are, not you, understood? Where's my Aoko, who'd fling her mop at them and then at me because it'd be my fault if I'm saying you're boy-like?"

The speech seemed to wake her a little – but not in the good way, he realized. A sort of determined look settled on her face, the one she had when she started arguing. "But – I've never dated anyone – girls like them have had a dozen boyfriends since middle school – I've never even kissed anyone!" That small, joyless laugh again, bitter and self-derisory. "Can you believe it? Nineteen-years-old and I've never been kissed… I guess I really must scare those guys off, uh…"

"Aoko." She looked up at him and froze; his calm voice had let nothing see through of the anger in his eyes, and the coldness in it was perhaps worse than its shouting tones from a moment ago. "You must stop thinking like that. I said you were beautiful – and _I meant it._ I didn't say it to please you; it was the truth. True, it isn't the same kind of beauty this kind of girls claim – but theirs is made-up. It isn't real. _Yours is._"

"But… Kaito…"

"I don't care what they said. I trust what I see – and what I see is one very beautiful girl."

"Then PROVE it!" she shouted. It was so sudden he jumped. "Prove it to me that I'm beautiful! Can you? Just prove it if you're so certain of it!"

_And you cry,_

_So desperate for your place among the stars_

_But why,_

_Searching for what you already are._

He looked at her, taken aback. Arms folded, she was glaring at him with a kind of mingled triumph and despair – she knew she'd won, she knew he'd never be able to prove anything like that, and yet she yearned to hear it out, to be proved wrong. Her eyes were shining, no longer with tears but with anger – which meant she didn't believe him. Which meant there was no way to get her out of this but to shock her out of it. Which meant…

He advanced on her swiftly, in one of those cat moves which were the life and soul of his tag games with the Kid Task Force, and pinned her against the couch's back, pressing his hands on the cushion on each side of her so that there was no escape way. She tried to step back, eyes wide looking at him.

You're beautiful, That's all that I can say. Unforgettable, I'm caught in every way.

"Kaito… what are you doing­­­­—"

"Proving a point." He crashed his lips against hers.

A gasp, a glimpse of shocked blue before her eyes fluttered shut, and he let himself close his as well. Savour of the moment. She writhed a second against him, hands clenching into fists in his shirt, but, relaxing, he felt her tilt her head to the left, accompanying the kiss, and he lifted one hand to her hair, to exert a slight pressure there, to keep them going towards that brand-new, unexpected, fabulous direction.

There was one hell of a difference between dreaming to kiss Aoko and actually doing it. And the difference was Aoko herself, Aoko pressed against his chest, the feel of her body and the scent in her neck, Aoko gasping to get a breathe of air, Aoko moaning against his mouth without his knowing what it was she wanted: stopping, or going on. Out of doubt, he made to move back, lips parting one half-second, the time of a heartbeat, but she pulled him in again without hesitation, with only reticence at the thought that maybe he shouldn't want it anymore. It wouldn't do to let her think this – he dived back into the delights of her mouth, further and further still.

Don't ever let the mirror tell you lies

_Just look at your reflection through my eyes_

_You're beautiful…_

It was heaven. He was ecstatic. Suddenly he slid one arm around her waist and spun round, lifting her feet right off the floor in his enthusiasm, and he felt her hands wound around his neck, though whether it was in order to not fall off or deepen the kiss, he couldn't say. He kept her high as long as he could, knowing that when he'd let her delicately down, he'd have to cut the kiss.

When it eventually happened, he felt her hand on his cheek at the moment their lips reluctantly parted; it slid down onto his chest as she looked up at him, oh god that blue again… fearful and beautiful.

"Kaito…" his name was the mere trickle of voice. "You're… you're pulling my leg, aren't you?"

Feeling your stars are drafted away from me

_Back to the empty place you used to be_

_How do I get to you…_

Whatever he'd thought she'd say then, it wasn't this. "_What?"_

"There's no way you'd want _me…_ is there?" Oh, no. Please let it not be so – let her not doubt this, not now. If anything was the truth – if anything ever was true about him – it was this, this and nothing else. But if she started to doubt it, she would never come to believe it, even if he said it loud enough for her to hear it in full.

_To you……._

His hands slid down to hers as he sat backwards onto the couch and she stood before him, not trying to escape his grip. "Why not? Because of those girls who insulted you? Or simply because you don't want me that way?"

_That's all that I can say._

And this was the choice, he thought, the choice he'd never expected to see happening that way: he was presenting his greatest weakness to her on a silver plate, striping away all the defences he'd carefully brought up over the years; a taste from her lips had sufficed to bring them all down.

"It's not like that!" she protested, shaking her head. She looked like she was on the verge of tears again. "But it's… it's so… it's just not possible. Look at who you are – a magician, everybody loves you, everybody admires you, you could challenge Kaito KID with your tricks – and I – I'm just breaking up the legend with my mop. I'm just the little crack in the glass, the little thing that can bring it all down…"

The only weak flank, Kaito thought. The only one who could keep him on the sanity side. But that, for now, she needn't know.

You're beautiful, That's all that I can say. Unforgettable,

_I'm caught in every way._

He gave her arms just a small jerk and leant backwards onto the couch to receive her in his arms. She gasped and immediately straightened up, her hands pressing on his shoulders and legs on each side of him; she looked lovely in that position. He smiled, bringing one arm behind his head.

"So?"

"Uh?" she looked thoroughly confused.

"So what if I am a magician? What if I like spotlights? What if I like showing off? How could that prevent me from loving you?" he said easily. Her eyes widened, her mouth opened, and a light flush pinked her cheekbones prettily.

"But – but…"

"Let me tell you something." He straightened up, too, so that they were face to face and she was sitting on his legs. "A magician, no matter how skilled, is _nothing_ when not assisted by an accomplice. Someone backstage, who works out the tricks – holds the ropes." He caressed her cheek softly. "And you've known how to hold the ropes of my heart for a _long_ time now."

Don't ever let the mirror tell you lies

_Just look at your reflection through my eyes_

_You're beautiful…_

"Kaito…"

"But Aoko – _my_ Aoko – my lovely, temperamental, _beautiful_ Aoko – what do you want? I'm yours – always been, and it's not likely to change." He was burning all his boats one after the other, but it was worth it. It was all worth it. "What do you want?"

"I—" she hesitated for a second, then bumped gently their foreheads together, "I want you. I've never wanted anyone but you. I—"

But Kaito cut her sentence short, and she never needed to finish it.

You're beautiful…

-

This is a special, just-in-time dedication to anaime7. Happy b-day, hon! Many wishes to you!

**The song's 'Beautiful', by Nick Lachley. I thought it fitted just perfect. For anyone who actually wonders, reviews **_**still**_** are the sunshine of my days :) **


	3. Never Let Go

Author's note:

**Author's note: This oneshot is the example of what happens when you're so bored in class you'd be falling to sleep if you didn't write, and your Muse has been kicking you in the chin for far too long. Be warned. xD**

**Warning: Slight change of style here. I'm experimenting.**

**Disclaimer: Aoyama-sama owns it all. That's the way it is, sadly. Song 'Dark Road', by Annie Lennox.**

**-**

**Never Let Go (title sucks…)**

**-**

No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no…

It isn't supposed to be like this. It never was.

It never was supposed to be _him._

Not _him also…_

He always proved wrong all the merest suspicions she had, and she believed him gladly, clutching to the lifesaver of his denial – but there is one hell of a difference between mere suspicions, and facing one unmasked, unmonocled Kaito KID. The difference – a hat rolling to the ground, wild black hair, and eyes too blue to be entirely genuine…

"Aoko…" the same voice as yesterday's – hell, as this morning's – but there are odder, sharper accents to it, as though furious, wild, yearning.

Desperate?

"Aoko…" And it's KID's voice again, not Kaito's any longer, just before his face closes and she stares into a frozen mask. The mask he only gave to others, never to her. Eyes cold – and so blank and impassive an expression she hardly recognizes him now.

She realizes she doesn't know this man.

She never knew him…

"Don't touch me," she hisses when he moves forwards; the skin of her arm burns under his trailing fingers. She staggers backwards, afraid not to be able to resist throwing herself in his arms and bursting into tears. "Don't you _dare_ touch me."

She doesn't see the flicker of pain in the darkening blue eyes (the mask slipping a fraction of second and hastily snapping back into place because he _can't_ allow himself to let it to fall, not here, not now) when she shakes off his hand and turns away.

She runs away, and she never looks back.

He doesn't try going after her.

He lets her go.

_It's a dark road_

_And a dark way that leads to my house_

_And the word says_

_You're never going to find me there, oh no…_

He gives her one last rose.

Leaves it on her doorstep at dawn. It's early yet: the streets are tainted in half-shades and the sun has not yet risen. The sky is a clear, fragile blue, with the dark spot of a blackbird soaring past the rooftop, and he thinks of the plane he's going to take in a few hours, the plane that will take him through that breakable blue.

He never thought it would be so easy, falling apart.

A rose on a doorstep…

A plane waiting…

Far to the east, above the roofs' horizon, a thin glimmer of red shines through the veil of rosy clouds assembled at the skyline. A cat meows and rapidly crosses the street. A bird trills cheerfully in a lemon tree. The paperboy's bicycle clinks as he passes whistling, scarf floating behind him.

He shrugs, stuffs his hands in his pockets, and walks away.

She finds the rose when she gets up, and swears to herself it's the last time she cries.

_I've got an open door_

_It didn't get there by itself_

_It didn't get there by itself_

Nothing changes.

Life goes on in its usual way, unperturbed, only a little slower, a little chillier, a little duller. Class-time seems to stretch in longer, unbroken by any doves or trumpets to amuse the public, and even though she sometimes fancies she feels the ghost of a hand making to flip up her skirt, her mop remains catching cobwebs in a corner.

She wonders where he is today, whom he's with, what he's doing, and hopes to see a dove through the class windows.

For a wee while her friends asked her where her fiancé has disappeared to, but now they revolve around her in cheerful circles, unmoved and unperturbed, and she talks and laughs with them as though nothing was wrong. Nothing _is_ wrong – is it?

It's not something gone wrong. It's a hole in the world.

As the weeks wear on, she turns carefully around the hole, hoping against hope she won't fall into it eventually. People and situations, they walk through it without even stopping to look at it, but she just sits there with her legs dangling in emptiness.

Nothing changes.

_There's a feeling…_

_But you're not feeling it at all_

She goes on living.

She wakes. She walks. She works. She eats. She studies. She reads. She moves. She laughs. She talks. She writes. She drinks. She smiles. She sleeps. She dreams. She thinks. She watches. She speaks. She waits. She helps.

She breaks. She remembers. She tries hard not to cry. She…

… needs him.

_There's a meaning…_

_But you're not listening anymore_

She receives cards from time to time. Happy birthday, they say. Merry Christmas. Happy New Year. They never are signed – not even an initial, nor even, yes, not even a KID caricature in a corner, with hat and monocle and all-knowing grin – but she would know that handwriting anywhere.

Wouldn't she?

Paris, Vienna, London, New York, L.A., Buenos Aires – the stamps come from all over the world, matching the regular KID heists in different countries. She never watches them on television, but she can't help seeing the newspapers' headlines and photos (the blue eyes behind the monocle's light-reflecting glass, under the brim of the hat, the crooning laugh or mischievous smirk), and she wonders it's the same man.

She could throw the letters away, but she keeps them in a locked drawer, safe and sound, where her father won't find them. Sometimes she goes through them, reads the much-repeated words all over again, and imagines she hears his voice pronouncing them.

She stares at the sky, and wonders what it's like to fly.

_I look at that open door_

_I'm gonna walk there by myself_

It's spring again. The sakura trees' branches in the school yard bend and sway in the wind, charged with blooming May flowers; their perfume swirls under the breeze around the bench where she's sitting by herself. Her graduation diploma lies beside her hands.

It's been one year.

And this is it. Time didn't freeze. The world didn't stop turning because Kaito's gone. She's leaving high school now, heading for college and grown-up life – leaving behind her teenage years, childhood friendships, without looking back, without regrets. And she's happy that way, isn't she?

_Isn't she?_

The sakura blossoms whirl in endless dances in the air, surrounding her.

She thinks she has always dreamt of graduating with him.

_And if you catch me,_

_I might try to run away_

"Dad, I'm thinking of moving out."

Her father looks up at her from above his morning coffee, and keeps silent. She goes on. "I've found a small place in third district. It's small and cramped, but it'll be closer to college than here. I'm tired of having three quarters of an hour's train every morning. This place's ten minutes' walk from the campus, and it's–"

Blank stare.

"It's not very expensive, and if you help me out with it at first, I'll find a part-time job to pay the rent…"

Still no reaction.

"I'm leaving, Tousan."

That gets a reaction. Nakamori Ginzo finishes his coffee. "Very well," he says. "That's only fair," and comes forwards to his daughter, arms open wide. She hugs him, and he hugs her back, long and hard.

And lets her go.

_You know I can't be here too long_

Two months after they've entered college, Hakuba asks her out.

She says, No.

He closes his eyes briefly – he was expecting that answer, she knows. He shakes his head, "Kuroba…"

She tenses – like always – and looks away. "Well, what about him?" But he doesn't answer, not does he need to, for they both know what's unsaid. She looks down, wishing she could allow herself to cry, just this once. Just this once…

Saguru is a nice, polite, caring, gentleman-like guy. She could learn to love him. He could make her happy.

But he could also make forget.

She _can't_ allow herself to forget. For no good reason, her whole boy rebels against the idea of forgetting the wild-haired magician jerk whom she detests so very much. Who lied to her, who used her, who left her behind without a word of explanation…

"You need to move on, Aoko-san," Hakuba says. "I've watched you since we entered college – you're not your usual self, Aoko-san. You don't smile like you used to do." He leans forward and takes her hand. "I want to help you, so much. Let me. Let me help."

He can't help.

"It's been more than a year, Aoko-san. Let go."

"No." Golden eyes flicker with surprise as they focus onto her. "You let go." She sees the pain on his face, and she wishes she could say something else, she could feel something else, she could be what he needs her to be. "I'm sorry," she whispers, as much for him as for herself.

Even with her eyes closed, she feels him letting go.

_And if you let me,_

_I might try to make you stay_

"I don't recognise you anymore, Aoko," Keiko says. "You're not yourself, who you used to be. Ever since Kuroba-kun's gone–" she cuts herself off, abruptly. "You're just not my best friend anymore."

"Sorry," she says, sitting down calmly.

"I can't take it in any longer. I just can't–"

"You can always go away if you want, you know." And though she looks cool and unconcerned, it hurts to say that, because this is _Keiko _for crying out loud, but what's going on here is bigger than herself, let alone her friend. What always mattered most to her were boys and clothes and KID anyway…

Keiko takes a long, hard, -last- look down at her, then turns on her heels without a second's warning. She hears the door slide shut behind her other best friend and she holds on tight to the desk, knowing it's best to let her go.

_Seems you never realise a good thing_

_Till it's gone…_

The good thing with college is that it's easy to lose oneself in the crowd. It's easy to be nondescript, easy to let one's personality fade into the appearance everyone else sees. Expects to see. Wants to see.

So she walks on through the corridors, goes to classes, talks with other students, laughs with them even, and shows them what's for them to see. It's easier for her – and it's what they want anyway. That way everyone's contented.

They laugh at her oh-so-messy hair, go shopping with her, listen to the words that flow effortlessly out of her mouth, but they never take a look to look at her right in the eyes – blue eyes unscathed and beautiful, but restless, meaningless, lifeless.

Soulless?

It doesn't do to think that way, she tells herself, and tries something else, and something else after that, but they always bring her back to it in the end.

_Maybe I'm still searching_

_But I don't know what it means_

She sees him sometimes. He's always sitting in the same position – leaning forward on his elbows, hands together – and he looks up at her with this small tired smile and eyes so blue that were always able to turn her world into turmoil. She speaks her heart out then.

I hate you, she says.

You lied to me and used me as a pawn, she says.

I still love you, she says. I don't know why.

He stands up and pulls her against him. She feels his hair brushing her cheek when his arms encircle her waist and hold her, tight. She hears his slow breathing in rhythm with hers. She feels his heart. And she burrows deeper against him, trying to take in his body, his scent, his warmth.

Hoping he'd never let her go.

"I'm here," he whispers, his voice vibrating low against her hair where his mouth moves. He holds her close, one arms around her waist, the other around her shoulders, warm. He breathes in her neck. "I'm here."

"You're gone," she sobs. "You're gone."

"I'm here." Insisting. Demanding. "I'm right here."

And just when she starts to believe him, she wakes up.

_All the fires of destructions are still_

_Burning in my dreams_

She still receives cards from time to time, when it's that period of the year again. They come in with cheerful words, wishes for New Year and on and on. They're trying to make her believe something, and she's not very sure what.

Not sure she doesn't want to believe it, or that she doesn't already.

She leaves them on top of the telephone stand for everyone to see, where her eyes fall on them a thousand times a day. She can't help letting them a part of her life.

She looks outside, through the saturated window, onto the coloured streets and animated people down there. Couples, walking hand in hand and looking happy on the spur of the moment. Families with bags and gift-wrapped presents, and their youngest running in their parents' legs.

She rests her forehead against the cool glass and closes her eyes, hands clutching around the latest letter he sent her.

So cold…

So cold…

_There's no water that can wash away_

_This longing to come clean_

_Hey yea yea…_

It's a chance she picks the phone that evening. It's because she's just out of the shower really, and the phone is right beside the bathroom door, and she picks up instinctively just before it stops ringing. She speaks vaguely, towelling her wet hair dry.

"Hello?"

"Hey Aoko."

Beat. Her hands in the towel stop their rubbing motion, and she curses her heart for starting again, so hard, so fast. Three years ago she would've slammed the receiver down, but this is now – him. Him. Him.

And she's tired of always pushing away reality.

So tired…

"Hey," she says softly, and hears him breathe out in silence.

"So… how're you doing?" His voice is nonchalant and careless as always – so close – behind her shoulder, blue eyes sparkling with innocent mischief, he's going to flip up her skirt like old days, and everything will be perfect again – but tired too, somehow just on the edge of fatigue, on the thin line between wake and sleep.

"Pretty good," she says, yet knowing she's not and so does he. A lit may be easily told but not so easily believed – and he's told too many lies himself to be lured to hers. "You?"

"Same," he says cheerfully, and there's this half-second hesitation – then suddenly, huskily, as though his thoughts were just a little too much to bear and he has to get them out of his system, "I miss you."

And the words flow right past her lips before she has time to catch them back.

"When are you coming back to Japan?"

_I can't find the joy within my soul_

_It's just sadness taking hold_

He calls her often after that. Most times she isn't even there to answer the phone, and even when she is she doesn't always pick up, but he leaves messages. And she listens to them with all the lights out, if only to let his voice invade the grey and blue shades of the living room.

_BEEP _"Aoko, hi, it's me. Thought I'd call you. I wish you could be there right now. This place's so beautiful. Hope you'll get to see it one day." _BEEP_

_BEEP_ "Hey, it's me. I saw your father at the heist tonight. What'd he come and do, help the local police?" _BEEP_

_BEEP_ "Merry Christmas, Aoko!" _BEEP_

_BEEP_ "Aoko? I wanted to speak to you… Oh, hell! I know it's no good saying that, but – I miss you. I miss you like hell." _BEEP_

_BEEP_ "Hey, it's me. So… you're twenty-two. Congratulations. I sent you something – but I'm in Canada right now, so it'll probably take a few days. Sorry I couldn't be there to celebrate. Guess that'll have to wait another year, ne?" _BEEP_

She loses herself to that voice.

Becomes sensation.

_I wanna come in from the cold_

_And make myself renewed again_

When she sees Hakuba again, she's in her third year and it's summer vacation. He calls out at her in the street, runs up to her and invites her in an ice-cream shop – and she accepts and smiles, because she can now.

Really?

"I hear you're getting married," she says. "Congratulations. I'm so glad for Akako-chan and you."

"Thank you," he replies with his usual composed voice, and a flush of embarrassment she never saw on his cheeks ever before. "We plan to have a winter wedding in December. Six months is enough for the arrangements… you'll come, won't you?"

"Me? yes, of course."

They eat ice cream. "He still isn't back, is he," Saguru says matter-of-factly.

She shakes her head – barely a jerk – and pinches the end of her straw in silence.

"Maybe," he adds prudently, "he won't ever come back."

"Maybe," she says, trying to look unconcerned. She knows exactly what he thinks, but it's not that easy for everyone just to move on. He did, so much the better for him. She can't. It would be so easy, she thinks, If every heart was the same.

"You should be more careful, Aoko-san," he sounds seriously concerned. "Before you get trapped."

She looks up at him, and says nothing.

_It takes strength to live that way_

Let go, she thinks. You can't go on with this relationship forever. Come on, it's time to move on. He won't come back, and you're not eighteen anymore. You know that. You're _twenty-two_ for goodness' sake and you never dated one _single_ guy.

Grow up.

If only it could come down to that. If only it were so simple…. then it would be easy to forget. But there are too many memories, too many red threads winding around her like ribbons of silk, entangling her in the same life over and over again, keeping her from forgetting what she still remembers. Blue eyes. And a smile.

His smile…

"You're getting trapped," Hakuba repeats over and over again, but it's too late.

She's already trapped. In him.

She never lets go.

_The same old madness every day_

In the street she is stricken by black hair and eyes the very shade of blue she always remembered. She runs after him, heart throbbing in her throat and feeling foolish _because_ _even after all this time she can't get enough of him_, she grabs his arm and he turns around…

"Kaito!"

Not. The eyes have the same sharp blue, but the hair – deep black and silky – is too tame, not wild enough. The features differ as well – but slightly, like a brother to a brother.

"Sorry, miss, this must be a mistake," he begins, and the voice is wrong, too. It has some accents, but it's too serious, too firm, not flippant enough. Too surprised. Her hand lingers on the sleeve she grabbed.

"Miss? I'm afraid you mistook me for someone else," he apologizes. "My name is Kudo Shin–"

"Sorry," she says, and lets go.

_I wanna kick those blues away_

_I wanna learn to live again_

Fall, she thinks, is a labyrinth season.

It's the same scheme over and over again – full circles of dreams and ideals all revolving, collapsing, turning short into dead-ends. Patterns endlessly repeating themselves like echoes reflecting ripples onto water, the same and the same and the same and the same again.

In fall her world is slowly crumbling, like fallen leaves of red and brown withering and shrivelling.

Breaking.

Shattering…

Leaves, night, sun, warmth, rain, light, sky – they all are falling around her, and she is falling along.

With them.

_Oh, it's a dark road_

_And a dark way that lead to my house…_

_BEEP_ "Aoko, it's me. Just calling to tell you to watch tonight's heist. Love you. Bye." _BEEP_

She watches the heist. (When, when, _when_ was she ever able to resist him?) She watches as KID makes his apparition amongst the assembled policemen, snatches the jewel under its owner's nose, and soars high in the dark sky, laughing madly. She watches as the gunshot breaks him in mid-laughter, and the camera skips through the frames to focus on the black silhouette of a sniper on a rooftop.

She watches as KID's white figure arches bird-like before falling, falling, falling, falling down.

The coppers' spotlights circle uselessly on the black surface of the water.

She cries herself to sleep.

_And the word says_

_You're never gonna find me there, oh no_

She stays at home all day. Forget college, forget work, forget duties, she huddles on the living-room couch, going over memories and infinite mop chases, and stares at the ceiling for hours. The sun rises and sets unnoticed. On the wall-clock, the hours pass in the slow ticking by of seconds, stretching in time. Stretching time…

The ringing of the doorbell echoes from wall to wall twice before she gets up. On her way to the hall she notices vaguely that the night has fallen: through the window there are only shadows of grey and dark blue, and touches of blurred light at people's windows.

When she opens the door, her eyes meet blue halfway through.

He's four years older. Black hair wilder than ever. Figure taller, slightly broader than before. Features sharper but really hardly changed. Two fingers holding a jacket over his shoulder. Soft grin, mocking and flipping as usual, albeit a bit tired. She hangs on the doorstep, eyes red-rimmed from crying, mouth parted, staring.

She doesn't feel anything.

"Tadaima," he says – so, so softly, in a muffled voice.

The tiniest tug at the corner of her lips, the smallest smile fleeing on her face. "Welcome back," she says, and suddenly, she _feels_. Feels so strong, so hard, that tears come up to her eyes again, and the only thing she wants are his arms around her.

"Can I come in?" he asks, and as this voice makes its way to her heart she knows that what she's been looking for all those years, a place safe and warm – home, home, home – where to belong to, at last, is right here right now.

In his arms.

She says, Yes.

_I've got an open door_

_It didn't get there by itself_

_It didn't get there by itself_

_**-**_

**(author having had way too much chocolate again today, jumps around the bedroom and shares cookies with everyone who reads this)**

**Hope you liked this! Many hugs and thanks to the readers who took the time to review last chapter!**

**Ja!**


	4. Still Waters Run Deep

Author's note: My finals are beginning tomorrow, duh

**Author's note: My finals are beginning tomorrow, duh. This is my last publishing on and then I die. XD Maa, I guess even dead I would still be writing. (besides, I'm falling in love over and over with this couple…)**

**Also, this is dedicated to my awesome friend Aka-chan, for reading my unpublished drabbles with all the patience in the world, and sharing the same addiction as me. (No, not cookies. Well, that too. xD love you, hon.)**

**Disclaimer: Gosho pwns it all.**

**-**

**Still Waters Run Deep (Sucking-Titles-Program on.)**

**-**

"Boy, it's hot," Aoko complained, her hand holding a fan too lazy even to lift and ventilate. "How can it be so hot. It shouldn't be allowed to be so hot…"

Her classmates only groaned. "It's _August_, Aoko-chan," Hakuba muttered, lying on his towel with large sunglasses over his eyes and a milk-shake at hand-reach. "It's _meant_ to be hot. Just take example on Koizumi and go to sleep…"

"But I can't stand all this heat," she whined. "I need fresh air."

"_A-ooo-kooo,_" Keiko moaned. "Shut up…"

"I know what she needs," Kaito suddenly said, sitting up abruptly with a very nasty grin that normally would have made Aoko reach for her mop, but right now it was wayyyy too hot for chases of any kind. And she had no skirt for him to flip. So she should be safe…

"What she needs is a bath."

Aoko's senses then seemed to go on a roller coaster ride. The world suddenly tilted into an upside-down blur of golden sand and blue sky, and next thing she knew she had a very ice view down Kaito's back – had he just _flung her over his shoulder? – _the surprised looks on their classmates' faces scampering away at an alarmingly fast pace, and she had hardly begun to bang on that _jerk's_ shoulders that the universe blurred again – white and blue and golden again – and with a thundering splash she sank into sharp, cold, delicious blueness.

When she resurfaced, head-first, coughing and spluttering, it was only in time to draw in a wheezy breath before what felt like slimy alga but were probably just Kaito's hands caught her ankles and pulled her down again. he struggled against him in the water, aiming feeble punches at him and trying to keep _him_ under, too, so that when he remerged, chest-high in the water, she had her legs and arms entangled around his waist and neck, gripping tight onto him.

She had salt in her eyes and wet hair in her face, drenched all over and she was laughing, god knew why and he was laughing too with his mouth in her hair, both his arms under her legs to hold her up against him, she was slipping and clutching at him like sinking person, bodies pressing together in a way far too intimate for their usual standards until their mouths finally, _finally _found one another; she was kissing – _damn_ – Kaito was kissing her and she was kissing right back without so much as an hesitation, as though this was the way it had been meant to be from the start and maybe it had, he tasted salt and alga and seawater and she really, really hoped they were hidden from sight of their friends or they were _dead_.

She slid off him when their lips reluctantly parted but his arms remained around her waist, holding her against him. When she opened her eyes he was grinning down at her like some kind of happy maniac. "Feel better now?"

… yeah." She grinned, too, suddenly; it caught her by surprise. "Way better."

"Good," he said curtly, and kissed her again.

-

**I gotta admit it's short and silly. And fluff-randomness. Couldn't help myself.**

**-glances nervously at the piles of homework on my desk – I'm certain it grows bigger when I'm not looking- Well, I should go back to working on this bloody philosophy exam for tomorrow. (depressed author, who would very much like living solely on fanfiction, takes it out on poor, genuine box of cookies, and offers some to compassionate readers.)**


	5. Among AUs And Other Niceties

Author's note: My muse went wild on that one

**Author's note****: My muse went wild on that one. She decided she wanted to write AUs, and thoroughly proceeded to kick me in the shin all day until I complied. So. Blame her first. -Muse Insertion: We BOTH wanted to write AUs, girl!-**

**Warning: Other worlds. A lot of them. And probably OOCs, logically.**

**-**

**Among AUs And Other Niceties**

**-**

_Tangles of threads. A streak of red, somehow._

_-_

In a world with one sun and far too many moons, a young girl of eight or thereabouts smoothed nervously down the skirt of her new school's uniform, waiting behind her teacher as she slid the classroom door open and introduced her to the other pupils. "Minna, this is Nakamori Aoko. Please be kind to her."

The girl gave one short, shy little bow.

"Now, where is there an empty seat… ah. Oh. Kaito-kun, would you please raise your hand? Go and sit next to Kaito-kun, Aoko-chan."

'Kaito-kun' was a boy with bright blue eyes and wild black hair, and a smile that would never die. "Aoko, uh? Nice to meet you!" A red rose erupted from in between his fingers. "I'm Kuroba Kaito. Let's be good friends, okay?"

Marvelling at the magic trick, Aoko accepted both the rose and the smile.

-

Dimensions away, in a world of infinite rain, one infamous, white-dressed phantom thief and the daughter of the police officer determined to catch him both sat in a narrow cabinet with no light and a door very much stuck.

The latter was sitting against the wall and sulked, glaring at the thief (who'd seated himself comfortably opposite her) as though this was all his fault. (Most likely it was.) "This _is_ all your fault, you realize that?" she said, in an undertone that clearly meant she'd rather be anywhere but here.

"Ye-es," he replied, sounding thoroughly unconcerned. "Possibly. Well, we'll just have to wait until your father comes and gets us out of here, ne?"

"Yes, and then you can expect to be caught shortly," she said with a voice of most satisfaction.

The thief just smiled. He seated himself more comfortably, arms behind his head, thinking he'd already been caught, though she didn't know it yet. The rain pattered and rattled against the tiny window in his back, drowning the sky outside in a dark blue-grey, closing them in a world of their own.

-

Worlds apart, in a city where light reigned from nightfall and people danced, talked, laughed, walked till dawn, a soon-to-be bride was preparing to meet her soon-to-be husband, lacing her long dress grudgingly and very much determining _not_ to love him.

In the next room, only separated by a thin door, a young man with blue eyes, and dark hair so wild even his silk black hat couldn't flatten it, was arranging his tie rather sulkily in a mirror and wondered why in the world his mother had forced him into an arranged marriage with a perfect stranger.

Both were ready, then.

The door swung open.

-

Meanwhile, in a world where cities spread over continents and forests were being massively destroyed, a young scholar working on a history thesis was settling in her new university flat, and was currently trying to fit her bed in a repulsive corner. _Finally_ achieving it and satisfied with the result, she went out on the iron landing to get some more boxes.

Her immediate neighbour, a young man with black hair messed by the wind, who'd abandoned his studies in favour of working for a reputed magician, was just coming back from getting nikumans at a street sale and was currently running up the stairs two at a time, scarf flying, whistling to himself.

They collided at the corner.

Shouting – and flying nikumans – ensued.

-

In a world in greys and blacks with dark, narrow streets and hurried people wearing worried looks, a young man whom no one had ever seen in this part of town sat at the counter of a café; the place glowed dimly in the dark streets and about half the district's population had gathered there to gossip.

They were all sitting or standing around tables where candles had left wax stains, all of them with grim faces and dusty miners' clothes. They all talked together in low, fast voices, and eyed the stranger with wary suspicion.

"What's going on here?" he asked the café's owner, who'd just placed a cup of coffee on the counter in front of him.

She turned back to him, her eyes unexpectedly blue in the gloomy atmosphere. "War."

-

In a world with excruciating heat during the day and cool sweeping winds at night, a girl wearing a long cloak walked up to the top of the highest dune and watched the muted stars and the quivering curves of the desert. She sat there, and remembered a young man from another tribe, who had once, when they were only children who ignored the very leaning of love, given her a gypsum flower; and she counted the days until they could meet again.

Half a desert away, a young man with wild black hair did the same, watching the same star patterns and remembering a girl with angry blue eyes, a pouting face, and a laugh too clear and bright to forget. He lay in the sand with his arms under his head, hood falling down a little on his shoulders. These nights were the longest ones.

-

In a world with no sun and the sky only roaming, dark-violet clouds, the air filled with smell of blood and rust, the battlefield was silent. A hiss of pain, a clash of metal, and one of the abandoned warriors crawled over to the side of another, though she bore different colours.

"Hey," he whispered, with a smile – it was raw and broken, and slowly faltering, but for some reason it comforted her to know that even up to their deaths he would always wear that smile she hated. It would be lies to the end.

"I hate you-"

"I know-"

Then they were silent and still under the dark clouds. There was no dawn here to wait for.

-

In a world with the sky a blinding white and endless snow spreading as far as the eye could see, so far that no one quite knew where the ground began and the sky ended, a fire rose and crackled in a shed of dark wood.

In their dance, the flames cast reddish glimmers on the two bodies entangled on the hearth-rug, tracing the quivering skin with orange-gold reflects; the sudden fizzling of sparks and cracking of logs hid whatever small noises they made by accident.

In the shivering devotion and passion and lust of love-making, each moan and whimper was a promise; and in the golden glow of the fireplace, their intertwined fingers appeared as though linked by a tangle of thin red threads.

Outside, a storm rose and raged around the cabin, but inside, everything was right, and warm, and as it ought to be.

-

She had never thought that one day his smile would die. It just wasn't right, not now, not here. But it was, and as she looked at her best friend's expressionless profile as he sat by the window alone, it was more painful than anything she had experienced.

She took him by surprise but he showed nothing of it. Her arms encircled his chest from behind and her head bent on his shoulder, hair almost tickling his neck. The phantom of a caress, maybe. "Kaito…"

"Go away, Aoko."

Not tired, not muffled as though he just wanted to keep away, but blunt. Harsh. Sincere, for once. He was like water in her hands.

"I'm not letting go," she whispered, pressing herself against his back, but words – his or hers – meant but little now.

-

In a train, in a world at night with only mountains and forests to journey by, the headlights hurling on their dark shapes, two strangers alone in a compartment met, talked, and grew to know more of each other. He made her frown, she yelled at him, he laughed (a lot), and finally managed to make her smile.

"… What?"

"Nothing. You're pretty when you smile like that."

And as the weeks-long night darkened and deepened around the train, and the glow from the gas lamp by their window was the only light they could see in the darkness, they huddled on their sleepers, and _eventually_ she allowed him to take her in his arms – only because it was a bit cold, of course.

-

In a world made of silk with only dreams to tread on, a young woman was standing in front of a tombstone.

_Here lies Kuroba Kaito_

_He will be loved and regretted_

_May he rest in peace_

Aoko whimpered, hid her face in her hands, and cried. It had been two years since the news had come to her, just as she was driving home – but she had no idea what had happened during that lapse of time. All that mattered was here, and now, and Kaito… oh god, _Kaito…_

"_Aoko?"_

A hand laid on her shoulder. A young laugh filled the air. _"It's time to go home now, Aoko…"_

She opened her eyes. She was sitting in her car again.

"Kaito?"

_WAKE UP._

-

And in a world with darkening blue skies and a clock tower that chimed past the time, a boy of seven or eight met a girl with a somewhat rueful face and asked her why she was looking so sad, all alone like that.

"It's my dad," she replied, cautiously. "He said he'd be playing with me, but he's working…"

She looked down, her blue eyes darkening as quickly and beautifully as the sky overhead. The boy hesitated, then extended a hand to produce a flower – one of the only magic tricks his father had taught him so far.

"Here, I'm Kuroba Kaito," he said, the girl looking up in wonder. "Nice to meet you."

And that was it – the beginning.

-

_It was just a thread among the tangle, but it was there, and that was enough._

-

**Now let me ask you a question. Which of all eleven scenarios above would you like to see as a proper oneshot?**

**1. the 'new pupil' scenario,**

**2. the 'stuck in a closet' scenario,**

**3. the 'arranged marriage' scenario,**

**4. the 'new neighbour' scenario,**

**5. the 'café' scenario,**

**6. the 'desert' scenario,**

**7. the 'enemies' scenario,**

**8. the 'lovers in a shed' scenario,**

**9. the 'dying smile' scenario,**

**10. the 'in a train' scenario,**

**or 11. the 'dreamworld' scenario?**

**-holds out reward: plates of beautiful, yummy white-chocolate-chip cookies-**


	6. World In A Nutshell

Author's note: Author's note: That oneshot is the sheer example of what happens when your muse wakes you up at three in the morning and makes you write (yes, mine does that often these days, doesn't she? Do they _all_ do it?) Weirdness is the general fashion. Be warned. x3

**Warnings: Er. Lots of to-and-fro-ing. And repetitions. And OOC-ness on Hakuba's and Akako's part – in fact, they're supposed to be the exact contrary than we know them in the manga.**

**Disclaimer: If I owned anything, I wouldn't be writing here.**

**-**

**World In A Nutshell**

**-**

The alarm set off abruptly, waking her up in the middle of the night.

Aoko blinked in the darkness, not quite certain what was going on, moaned in discomfort as the incessant ringing didn't stop, and rolled on to the other side of the bed to see what the alarm clock read.

The alarm clock read 3:34. The greenish numbers shone dimly in the utterly dark bedroom. Aoko groaned and slapped her hand down on the insolent machine, bringing the trumpeting to a couac and then into silence; her ears were still ringing with the last echoes that kept bouncing off the walls.

Mentally cursing the day some _nerd_ had invented alarm clocks and working days in general, she turned back on the other side, sank back into the deliciously warm covers, buried her face in the pillow and proceeded to fall back to sleep immediately.

_-o-_

The next morning the alarm set off in due time, and Aoko was already half awake.

She shut it up and made sleepily for the bathroom, stretching her arms high above her head and bending her back. As she stripped off her pyjamas and stepped into the shower she pulled the hot water wide open; she knew that only scalding heat or freezing cold would snap her out of her morning's trance-like state.

The showerhead started to pour.

Her hair tumbled on her shoulders, rapidly dripping and warm drops started to run down her spine, making her shiver. The water ran swift; it drizzled on her face, welled in her cupped hands, and slowly caressed down her skin in thin rivulets that caught light from outside the blurred, translucent panels of the shower place.

Heat increased. Steam filled the narrow cubicle, making it harder to breathe; she felt a little dizzy now, and had to lean her hand against the cool stone wall to keep herself from dozing off slightly. This was usually a sign either to add on cold water or to get out of the shower.

Her feet slipped on the wet tiled floor and she caught herself up on the washbasin. Condensation had blurred the mirror above and its surface looked soft to the touch and slightly shiny, like oxidized silver. For a second she was tempted to–

Then she was standing straight in front of the glass, fully dressed. Looking up, she caught a streak of blue in a vague trail on the silvery mirror, a gleam of black locks – for some reason, it reminded her of Kaito.

_-o-_

By the car park, her keys were no longer in her pocket.

She would be late now, she thought irritatingly, checking she hadn't forgotten anything _else,_ and made to turn back – but didn't achieve the move for a hand dangled said missing keys down in her face from behind.

"Forgotten something, haven't you?" Kaito's amused voice said in her ear, so close that his breath brushed against her hair. She glared a little; an instinctive response due to years of teenage teasing.

"I–"

The keys were in her hand. She looked around.

The parking was empty.

_-o-_

"You don't look good, Aoko-chan," was her superior's greeting when she arrived to work.

"Oh, hello to you too, Akako-chan," Aoko said ironically, sitting down at her desk and smiling at her high school friend. "I'm so glad to see you too, thanks so much for caring, I'd no idea you'd missed me that much–"

Akako's hands laid none too gently down on the desk. "I mean it, Aoko-chan. _You don't look good._ Are you ill or something? Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to come today if you're not feeling well, you won't be doing any good work in a sick state…"

"I'm alright, Akako-chan," Aoko assured her under her superior's suspicious look. "I just didn't sleep quite well last night, that's all. Bloody alarm clock started ringing at half-past three–" she considered telling her about Kaito in the parking, then resolved on not. Knowing Akako, anyway, she would probably guess what the matter was about in a matter of seconds. "So what's the schedule today?"

"Management threw a fit again," her friend answered automatically. "Some bloke up on third goofed up with the archives and now they want us to type in all the Account dossiers _again… _it's him, isn't it?"

"… who?" Aoko stubbornly picked up a folder and started leafing through it, refusing to meet Akako's gaze. They'd had this conversation thousands of times before, and she wasn't ready to have another. She launched her Account program on her screen and sighed. "I think somebody _else_ goofed up here. Look at those entries – I'm sure they went farther than August the fourth. That's six months ago."

"You sure you picked up the right safeguard?" Akako typed for a while and sighed as well. "That would be Akira. I told him a hundred times not to play with this program… he's _gone_, Aoko. Thinking about him won't make him come back."

"How'd you know that?" Aoko persisted. "You can't be sure… we have to get a password for this program. If anybody can come in and play, we'll never get anywhere."

"We already have a password. I dunno if we can change it… I know it's no good saying that, Aoko, but _you'll_ never get anywhere if this goes on."

"If it's no good saying it, why do you bother?" Aoko hissed without turning her head. Akako knew her enough to know she didn't really mean to sound so angry. Besides, she did the same all the time… Her friend sighed and said no more.

_-o-_

Hakuba met her outside just as she came down the steps into the street at lunchtime. It had started to snow.

"Aoko-chan! What a coincidence – I was just thinking about you…"

Aoko sighed for the thirty-fifth time that morning. She had learned to stop believing in coincidences when it came to the half-brit officer. He worked with her father in the police building just opposite the street, and had been for a few months asking her out about twice a week, never sounding dejected by her refusing point-blank every time.

"Coincidence indeed," she said, passing past him and stuffing her hands in her coat pockets. It was cold; there was condensation on the car windows parked there. Automatically, she thought she'd have trouble starting up her engine if it froze over the afternoon.

"What about going to eat with me?" he asked, catching up with her. "I know a pretty good prairie restaurant just down the street – and it's warm there," he added, noticing with a slight smile her reddened cheeks and muffling scarf.

"I just came down to buy stamps," she lied. "I hardly have ten minutes."

"Oh," he said. "Well, then, there's a ramen store in the avenue over there – it's quick and good. I'm sure you'll like it. C'mon."

"Hakuba-kun." He turned back to her and she bit her lower lip nervously; better get on with it now and never come back on this, right? "I won't be able to eat with you today." He opened his mouth and she hastily added, "Nor any other day. We, er – we're having a problem with the archives – some guy made a big mess of them – anyway, it's a lot of work and trouble and I can't be allowed to absent myself from my office too long." She had never thought all this mess they were in might help her out of any awkward situations, but there it was.

"… I see." He looked so disappointed, so childish too, almost like a rueful puppy, that Aoko couldn't help but feel compassionate. The situation was going too rapidly between her hands, like water welling and running…

"I'm sorry, Hakuba-kun. I'm really sor–"

POOOON.

Something changed and Aoko snapped back into focus.

POOOOOOOOON.

She jumped on her seat and clasped the wheel so tight it hurt, steering wildly to the right as some mad car rushed at her at full speed. She skidded in a long slide on the street's gravel to get out of the way before the collision, and immediately cut off the engine, panting with surprise.

The other driver passed her without slowing down, shaking his fist at her and screeching something probably very kind and gentle but which she didn't hear. She unclasped her hands from around the wheel, staring at her palms where the tightly-grasped rubber had left red marks. Her car? Why was she in her car?

She'd been at work and…

She glanced at the clock above the control panel. The greenish numbers showed 9:15. It passed to sixteen as she watched and she ran her hand in her hair, trying to comprehend the situation. Her beeper starting off startled her, but it was only a short, typical message from Akako asking her why she wasn't yet at work.

'_Some guy messed up with the archives. Move your rear over here.'_

She sent back, '_Traffic. Be right there,'_ but something was wrong. She looked up at the front window. Snow was just starting to fall, the thin snowflakes swirling down in the breeze and melting on the glass. Above the sky looked soft to the touch and slightly shiny, like oxidized silver.

"Aoko."

Something changed and Aoko snapped back into focus.

"Aoko, wake up." Kaito's voice was soft in her ear and his hands shook her shoulders gently. "You'll be late for work if you sleep on."

"Grfmm. Five more minutes…" she yawned, stretched a little, and curled back into the deliciously warm covers, tugging them back up to her chin. Kaito laughed softly and his fingers caressed her cheek, extracting a half-smile from her lips.

"C'mon. Get up…" He pulled the covers down a little and she caught them back with a pout, eyes still closed.

"But I don't wanna…"

"Aoko?"

Silence. Aoko let go of the blanket's hem slowly, finger after finger, and kept her face in her pillow, breathing a little harder than she should have. It was cold suddenly. She uncurled under the sheets and rolled slowly on her back, straightening up on her elbows to take a look around.

There was no one in the bedroom save for her.

This time she took her shower ice cold.

_-o-_

"You don't look good, Aoko-chan," was Akako's greeting when she arrived at the office.

_No shit_, Aoko thought, sitting down at her desk. "Just tired. What's today's plan?"

"Some bloke messed up with the archives," her friend said with distraction, still staring at her rather worriedly. "We have to start up all the Account dossiers again from the fourth of August – are you _sure _you're just tired?"

"Yes," Aoko said, calling up the program. The screen was blank. She typed in more keys. The screen stayed blank. It looked soft to the touch and lightly shiny, like oxidized silver. "_Damn it."_

"You should take the day off," Akako persisted. "It's okay for me. I can take care of those till tomorrow morning – you look like you badly need to rest. C'mon. Go back home, take a long nice bath, watch a movie–"

"_Akako-chan…"_

"Keep calm," Kaito ordered, his arms encircling her waist from behind. He pulled her up against his chest and she let her head drop on his shoulder, sighing deeply. He was warm, his hair tickled her cheek a little. "Stay with me."

"Aoko-chan?" Hakuba asked anxiously, and Aoko snapped back into focus.

"I… what did you say?"

"I asked you if you'd like to come to that prairie place with me… you're okay? You looked like you were going to pass out for a moment here…" He made a motion forward as though to take her hand, but she snatched it back mechanically. "… well, do you want to or not?"

_No_, said Aoko's brain.

"Yes," said Aoko's mouth. "Why not?"

That Hakuba was surprised was an understatement. In fact, he looked positively thrilled. "Really? Great! Follow me, it's not very far – they have this potato and mushroom _purée _that's particularly in these days, and their desserts are everything you can hope for – in a strictly western sense of course–"

Aoko let him ramble on. It had stopped snowing, but the cars they passed were covered in frost, and the sky was a lighter kind of silver, the sun shining dimly above the buildings.. An icy breeze picked up as they crossed the street, freezing Aoko to the core – she stuffed her hands farther down in her coat pockets and buried her face into her scarf up to her nose.

The prairie place was indeed warmer than outside, but she was irresistibly taken with the urge of getting out of it at once. She looked at Hakuba discussing the pros and cons of window seat versus radiator seat with the waiter, and knew she couldn't stay. _Oh, god, Kaito…_

"Hakuba-kun…"

"Hm?" He turned back with a wide grin illuminating his face. "Are you worrying about the note. Don't worry – my treat–"

"… I can't stay."

"What?" his face fell in an instant, lips trembling a little. He really looked like a puppy. "But… I thought…"

"I know," Aoko pressed on. "I'm so sorry. But I can't – can't allow myself to – I'm _sorry_. I shouldn't even be here. I – you – I was only coming down to buy stamps," she explained desperately, and fled. She wrenched the restaurant door open and tore outside in a whirl of her scarf – the wind slapped her face and stung her eyes so hard tears ran – outside in the blinding light of the winter sun–

_Stay with me._

_-o-_

The alarm set off abruptly, waking her up in the middle of the night.

Aoko blinked in the darkness, not quite certain what was going on, moaned in discomfort as the incessant ringing didn't stop, and rolled on to the other side of the bed to see what the alarm clock read.

The alarm clock read 8:88.

The ringing didn't stop.

_-o-_

She found herself awake as suddenly and soundlessly as though someone had just slapped her dream self to awareness. The bedroom was entirely light, the winter sun's light filtrating through the thin curtains and reflecting on the white walls like endless fields of snow. The bedsheets were very white as well, cool against her naked skin.

There was nobody else in the room.

What…

She fastened the sheets around her figure like a robe and stumbled to her feet. The room swayed a second and then came to a standstill. Aoko tightened the cloth around her bust and waist and wandered into the living room after a quick peep into the bathroom, looking for traces of occupancy.

The living room was completely empty.

So was the kitchen. She flicked the lights off again and strayed back into the living room, which had about as much light to it as her bedroom. Long sunbeams shone through the windowpanes, drawing thin, elongated rays of silver across the parquet's slits. Outside, the sky was satin-like and soft to the touch… Aoko brushed her fingertips on the table, the bedsheet around her smooth as silk, loosening and falling down on her back, tumbling in folds and folds like long waves of white, falling, falling…

"Maa, what a sight in the morning," Kaito said from behind her, his grin _etched_ in his voice. Even without looking, she knew he was leaning against the frame of the kitchen's door, with his arms folded and his head tilted just _that_ way which always made her think of a purring cat granted with its favourite kind of milk.

"Pervert," she smiled, turning to him.

The doorway was empty.

_-o-_

This time Hakuba met her directly in the parking lot. He held her car door for her and waited until she had come out before speaking out a long, rasping speech.

"AokochanIwantedtoaskyououtforthepartytonightbutofcourseifyoudon'twanttoIunderstandperfectlyyourfeelingsperhapsyoualreadyhaveacavalierbutifyoudon'tpleaseletmebetheonewho'lltakeyoutodanceIreallywishyoutocomewithmeitwouldgrantmegreatpleasurebutI'dquiteunderstandifyousaidnosoyoumustn'tcareformyfeelingsfirstbutyours."

He paused for breath and Aoko stared at him.

"… pardon?

"Err – I wanted to know if you'd come with me to the party tonight," he elaborated more coherently, but that still didn't make sense to her.

"What party?"

This time it was his turn to stare at her. "The _party_. The police's party. Didn't your father tell you? but no – I told you about it myself – I've been telling you for months on end, hoping you'd understand my hints, but if somebody else asked you, of course I'd quite understand you'd have to comply to your prior engagement…"

"I don't have – what is this all about?"

His stare increased, and he took hold of her arm. They were walking out of the parking lot and just looking up mechanically Aoko saw the sky over their heads, overcast and a grey sort of silver. It was starting to snow.

"It's the party celebrating Kaito KID's arrest, of course."

Blink.

"Who?"

_-o-_

"You've forgotten me, haven't you?" Kaito asked, from his sitting position on the couch. The fabric was as deep a blue as his eyes and stood out against his black shirt and jeans. Aoko brushed her fingertips on the table, the bedsheet around her smooth as silk, loosening and falling down her back, tumbling in folds and folds like longs waves of white, falling, falling…

"I… don't know."

"… don't go."

But it was too late for that, as well.

_-o-_

_­_"Go home, Aoko."

Aoko looked up at her friend, finding it difficult to lie to her. "I'm fi–"

Akako's hands slapped down on the desk's surface. "I _said_ go home. You're in no condition to go on working here today, you haven't been here for an hour and you already look as though you were going to faint. We'll handle the situation here, we can miss a person – so go. Back. Home."

"I…" Aoko sighed. "I'm not sure."

"_I _am. Now, come on." While talking she pulled her up and towards the lifts, catching her bag on the way. "You'll have a nice long bath and sleep, and you'll wake up in the morning feeling much better. You got the keys of your car? Here you go. Outside. Put your coat on. Lord, I feel like I'm your mother – or your older sister – hell, I don't care. Go on. I'll call you in the evening."

Aoko half-smiled at her through the glass door – it was no help resisting now – gave her a small wave of the hand, and left. It was snowing stronger, and people pushed past her muffled up in their heavy coats and scarves. An icy wind picked up just as she reached the parking lot, swirling the snowflakes in a strange dance behind her.

Akako was right, she thought, coming down the stairs. She needed rest, and maybe a bath too. She felt dizzy, on the verge of nausea – but it was better already than it had been inside the closed-up office. She breathed deep while crossing the parking to her car.

The driver's window was blurred in condensation. She rubbed it off and unlocked the door, hoping against hope that the engine hadn't frozen. Surprisingly, it kicked up with the first contact. She slowly pulled up and started out of the parking lot, stretching her fingers stiff with cold around the wheel. Outside, the sky looked soft to the touch and slightly shiny, like–

"So…"

Aoko blinked.

"This is goodbye?"

A strong drizzle of hot water sprayed on her face, almost blinding her. She spluttered and waved her hands in front of her face, trying to avoid the splatter and her bare feet gliding just so on the slippery tiles. Moving her head and lowering her hands, she stared.

She was sitting in her shower again, wet clothes soaked against her skin.

_-o-_

"Akako-chan? yes, it's me. I don't think I'll be able to come today, sorry. I'm, err… tired. A bit sick I suppose."

"You called a doctor?" Akako's worried voice echoed strangely through the deforming receiver. " You really choose your day, we're having a big crisis in our hands here… seriously, is it bad? Are you alright?"

"Fine. It's okay, really. I just need to rest today."

"Hmm. Just be sure to be at work right on the dot tomorrow. And take care of yourself today, it's probably the last day off you'll have in a while, seeing the mess we're in right now. We're gonna need everybody who can help, I can't tell you… be there tomorrow or I'll come and smother you myself."

"Love ya too. I'll be there. Thanks."

"You're welcome. See you tomorrow."

"Bye."

Aoko set the receiver down, thinking. Akako had sounded more worried than she let on. Huddled on the couch in her pyjamas, she stared at the window – it snowed hard, and the sky was darkening so fast that if she hadn't known better, she'd have though there was a storm coming up. She wasn't even sure she could have made it to the office if she'd come out in her car.

She let herself fall backwards and felt the sofa's soft fabric against her cheek. Images swirled in and out of her mind like mockingbirds, escaping her every time she tried to grasp at it – Kaito handing a rose to her, Kaito flipping her skirt, Kaito kissing her teasingly, Kaito coming out of the shower with his hair wet and hardly a towel on, Kaito leaning down to her over the couch's back, Kaito smiling at her in the morning.

Kaito.

…

What had happened to him again?

… _don't go._

But it was too late for that.

She was standing at the window, looking out. The snow was falling so hard and thick and the sky was so dark she could hardly see, dimly making out forms and shapes out of the blurred shadows. Condensation formed on the glass where her breath touched it. It was probably cold.

Arms slipped around her waist from behind and pulled her up against a strong chest. There was another breathing here, just against her ear. Even without looking–

"So…"

Aoko blinked.

"This is goodbye?"

­_-o-_

Aoko stared at the tombstone in front of her.

_Here lies Kuroba Kaito_

_He will be loved and regretted_

_May he rest in peace_

Aoko whimpered, hid her face in her hands, and cried. It had been two years since the news had come to her, but she had no idea what had happened during that lapse of time. All that mattered was now, and here, and Kaito… oh god, _Kaito…_

"Aoko?"

A hand laid on her shoulder. A young laugh filled the air. "It's time to go home now, Aoko…"

Aoko blinked. She was sitting in her car again.

"Kaito?"

_WAKE UP._

_-o-_

Something changed, and she snapped back into focus.

Ocean blue eyes stared back into hers.

Looking round, she saw she was in an airport terminal. He was in front of her with his jacket held up on his shoulder by two fingers, sporting a kind of tired, lopsided smile. There were bags at his feet and her breath caught in her throat, _no, no, she couldn't live that again he was going to leave her again and she didn't want dread and tears and need and fear fear fear–_

_DON'T LEAVE ME!!_

"Aoko. Aoko?"

He was leaning down to her now, smile gone. Instead there was a strange gleam in his sky blue eyes, the feel of something changing in these long avenues, the feel of something different, something silky and soft to the touch, and her breath caught again, though not for the same reason.

He wasn't going away.

_He was coming back_.

"Kaito…" was all she managed before he smiled again and kissed her gently, shutting her up. He was warm and tender, the way she remembered him being; his hand on her cheek, fingers caressing the skin delicately; his scent and taste and touch all around her and it felt like a long-lost rain slowly brushing you past.

Lips against hers, he whispered, _"Wake up."_

_-o-_

_(… and it _was_ a kitten, after all.)_

_-o-_

The alarm set off abruptly, waking her up in the middle of the night.

Aoko blinked in the darkness, not quite certain what was going on, moaned in discomfort as the incessant ringing didn't stop, and rolled on to the other side of the bed to see what the alarm clock read.

The alarm clock read 5:56. The greenish numbers shone dimly in the utterly dark bedroom. Aoko groaned and slapped her hand down on the insolent machine, only to find that didn't stop the incessant ringing, which came in fact from her vibrating cell phone on the row of shelves.

"Who…?"

Kaito's name was blinking on the screen, but she picked up only to hear ragged breathing. "Kaito? Hello? _Kaito?"_

"… –oko…"

"_Kaito? _Are you okay? what's going on?"

"I … shot… need… call a – couldn't remember the–"

"You've been shot?" Aoko almost shrieked, clutching the phone in both her hands. "Wait – wait, I'll call a–" she looked around frantically, looking for her house phone. It was in the living-room, she remembered, rushing into it. "–where are you?"

"Park … the park in front of–" he was cut by a cough and Aoko almost felt her heart leap with fear. "–clock tower…"

His voice was fainter and fainter. "NO – no, stay with me – hold on – I'll make the call–" she almost heard Kaito chortle weakly (as if he could NOT hold on). She listened hard to his rough breathing in one ear while calling a hospital in the other and giving the indications to the receptionist.

"We'll be there in a few moments," the woman said, in a thoroughly irritating calm voice. "Please keep the injured awake – _don't let him sleep."_ And she hung up.

Aoko grasped the last thread of control she still possessed in the situation – she pressed her cell phone to her ear and urged Kaito to speak to her again. "W-what happened? Who shot you? Did you see them? Kaito, please, _speak to me…"_

Then she stopped, because her voice covered Kaito's. "… Snake …"

Hadn't he said he'd been shot? Was he delirious? "C'mon, Kaito, _stay with me. _It's going to be alright, don't worry – just _speak._ Don't go to sleep, hear me? _Don't sleep_ – what did the snake do?" she asked desperately.

"… I ran into him… didn't recognise me… went after him… he thought I was my father again–" he was caught in a fit of coughing again, "–couldn't escape… that's how he killed him too–"

None of this made any sense to Aoko, but she let him speak, and prompted him to speak more when at times he stopped, just rejoicing in his voice getting firmer and his breathing never going fainter, and never hung up until she heard the ambulance stopping and the medics gathering around Kaito.

One of them told her the name of the hospital they were taking him and she assured him in her shaking voice she'd be there as soon as she could, but as she put the phone down she just sat on one of the living-room chairs, dazed.

She thought of the tombstone she remembered and Akako and Hakuba and the KID party and her shower and her car and the notice of his death and _no no no more please let it not be so please let me not forget him, no, it's all wrong, no, no, NO!!_

But Kaito's ragged breathing and faint heartbeat were still throbbing in her ear, and she figured that maybe – maybe – it would be alright.

They would be alright.

Outside the window, the sun was starting to rise.

-

**I have NO idea where all that came from. The end was supposed to be a very nice little thing with Aoko waking up in Kaito's arms and warmth and everything, and at some point it mutated into that melodrama act. Muses are mystery.**

**The '… and it **_**was**_** a kitten, after all' thing was a shameless extract from Lewis Caroll's Through The Looking Glass. Yes, I'm addicted. Still. ;)**

**About last chapter – many cookie-shaped thanks to the lovely people who took time to review and vote for their favourite AU. So here are the results (altered at the last moment by katiesparks's vote, aren't you ashamed, girl? now I have to recalculate everything… aah, I'm just glad you voted anyway x3):**

**#1: the 'arranged marriage' scenario wins easily. (Predictable, aren't we?)**

**#2: the 'enemies' scenario, 'dying smile' one and 'café' one are tying up.**

**#3: the 'new neighbour' one, 'stuck in a closet' one (what exactly where you thinking of while voting, hmm?) and 'train' one are tying up also.**

**Some people seemed to think they only had ONE vote possible… actually you could do as you wished. So far as I'm concerned, I like the idea of writing plenty. nn **

**Seeing that I'm leaving today on vacation and will be absent from for a month, you won't see me until late August – with a lot of AUs to post. Happy (and cookie-filled) holiday to you, minna!**

**Ja! –gives cookies–**


	7. CoOkIeAdDiCt

A/N: I'm back, yeah

A/N: I'm back, yeah! One friggin' MONTH without any fanfics at all – that's torture. But now I AM back – to fics and cookies and everything in between. x3

Speaking of cookies… the following drabble was born from a talk between butterfly-chan and me about KID-feeding-Aoko-with-cookies. Eventually it revolved into her daring me to write out something with that prompt as a starting theme. (Two cookies-addicts we are, uh?)

Warning: the cast is all Aoyama-sensei's. (I had a friend sent to Japan in July to ask him if he wouldn't graciously hand the rights over to me, but he said no. Can you believe that?) The idea, uh… well I guess butterfly-chan and I are sharing it…

-

CoOkIe-AdDiCt

-

Codename of the operation: CoOkIe-AdDiCt.

Aim of the operation: That towel-covered plate on the table over there.

Detail of the operation: Swift but useful. Dash in, grab aim, dash out.

Possible booby-traps that might endanger the success of the operation: Errr… visibly, none. Chairs in the way, which in case they are butted into, might topple over and wake household. (In which case, run for it.) Ways to sidestep the danger: avoid chairs.

Beginning of the operation: Midnight. Keeping to the elementary rules of thievery is the best way to succeed.

Timing of the operation: Without chairs-involvement, ten seconds. With chairs-involvement and/or household-involvement… no one can tell.

-

At first, it was a glass of water.

Water only sounded nice as sleepless Aoko got out of bed and made blindly for her bedroom door. Fresh water. Good water.

As she reached the stairs, however, it came to her mind that milk (a large, cold glass of milk) might advantageously replace the water. She wasn't halfway down that the idea of adding some cacao came butting in. (But the dilemma was, now, thus: powdered cacao or would she be melting some actual chocolate and risk waking her father up?)

By the kitchen door, she had eventually decided to stick by a glass (or several) of cold milk _but_ eat some of the cookies she had made in the previous afternoon, along. Further bulletins of action in the making…

She opened the door.

She paused.

She blinked.

She thought, 'Alright. Kaito KID is now in my kitchen, hovering beside the table, caught red-handed in the act of trying to steal _my _cookies. He came in through the window, has made his way through the kitchen without colliding with any chairs, and was going to run with the plate. Of cookies. Of _my _freaking cookies. I am going to wake up.'

Then she opened her mouth to scream.

KID had swooped down onto her in a matter of seconds, and the struggle that ensued was shorter still. Before she'd had time to realize exactly _what_ was actually going on, Aoko was lying flat on her back – on the couch – with KID sitting on her midriff and one gloved hand pressed on her indignant mouth to silence her.

"But _shhhh," _he said to her in a muffled and giggling whisper, tapping his index to his lips as though he was lecturing a small, naughty child. "If you scream, you father will wake and come down to see what the matter is, you know."

"Tadt shdee actall whoind iiou shtupeet pasta!" (Which pretty much came down to, "That's the actual point you stupid bastard!") KID flicked her forehead absentmindedly.

"Now, now, be quiet. Be a good girl." He reached out to take the plate off the table, arranged it nicely on a cushion, and started to stuff his mouth with cookies, all the while keeping his legs around her waist in such an iron lock she couldn't move anything except her head. "They're good, you know," he commented between two chocolate chips.

_How did he even know I've been baking cookies?_ Aoko thought, glaring furiously, and summed the situation as this: happy-KID was currently straddling her, in the dark kitchen, without leaving her a single opportunity to call for her father, grinning like a happy-maniac and wolfing down happy-cookies – of which he occasionally bestowed a bite or two onto her.

She was going to wake up.

-

Success of the operation: complete.

Operation completed at: one-thirty.

Further bulletins of action in the making.

-

Err… so yeah. A bit overboard, but please bear in mind that I've been gone for a month, and I only have five little days till school starts again. You should see from me again soon enough.

Oh, and huge, huge thanks to all the people who reviewed Gem's Entry last chapter (especially to Stelra Etrae and MissGreenPeace, whose reviews made me blush so hard you could have baked cookies on my cheeks) and generally on So I Can Breathe, and have supported me all along. AND to all the awesome people who put me and my stories on their Alert and Favourites lists while I wasn't looking – I couldn't believe my eyes when I opened my e-mail box after a month's absence. Love ya all!

–grins– cookies, anyone? KID-shaped ones? x3


	8. Twilight Blues

A/N: This is a b-day present for butterfly-chan, for being such a great KaitoXAoko author and an awesome friend, besides

**A/N: This popped up one day, a while back. It never quite left. Which just comes to show how strong muses can be. Especially when they've been fed essentially with cookies. x3**

**This is a b-day present for ****butterfly-chan****, for being such a great KaitoXAoko author and an awesome friend, besides. –gives usual hemisphere-away hug, the promised truckload of cookies, and a HUGE plunnie of a teddy bear nibbling on a cookie–**

**(This isn't what I meant to offer you at first, because the other one turned out to be awfully long. It should be posted sometime in the week, just consider as an unofficial present till then, 'kay? x3)**

**Disclaimer: P.E.A.N.U.T.s, Inc.**

**-**

**Twilight Blues**

**-**

1.

There is one hell of a lot of shouts and irate hisses and broken plates the day they move in together.

The flat is small and unfurnished, because they're both in college still and they can't afford a top fare, and the bed doesn't quite fit in the corner they planned, and some of the _ofudas_ on the wall threaten to fall off. There's a grim face-looking stain on the kitchen wall above the washbasin, and they argue so vehemently about the size of the cupboard some neighbours come out on the landing to worry around the matter.

Their immediate neighbour, an oldish lady with a wrinkled face and wrinkled hands and a wrinkled, kind smile, invites them in her own apartment, which isn't much larger than theirs, but she's a widow, she explains, and her husband's pension is enough for her means.

They have tea and some _mochi_ together and she tells them about those who lived in their flat before – a husband and wife going through the last instances of divorce and arguing about anything and everything almost every night. Both kind in their own, weird way, she says, but really too noisy to stand around.

"I'm really glad there's a young, happy couple to replace them," she adds, and they both flush quite prettily but don't bother to deny it much.

Later, they return, and order some take-out sushi, as it's really impossible to cook in their messed-up kitchen. They eat in silence, the sounds of chopsticks fumbling around, and from time to time glance at each other almost shyly, smiling a little when their eyes meet.

It's getting softer as the night wears on, and when he kisses her he tastes slightly of soy sauce and something else, too, something essentially him.

-

2.

She still has the dreams, often.

Sometimes she will just fall into them as sleep takes her, and she tosses around to get out; some other times her dreams will slowly degrade into nightmares, and she wakes up in a sweat, breathing raggedly with her heart beating much faster than it should be allowed to.

Kaito wakes to the sound of her sobbing, and she feels his cold fingertips trailing on her naked back just as he straightens and pulls an arm around her.

She cries softly in his chest, with images of her father falling down shot and vividly red blood staining a white tuxedo still shifting pitilessly in her mind. Kaito holds her, and doesn't speak, mercifully, but nurses her back to sleep till he feels her breathing even out against his skin.

He runs his hand in her hair as he lays her back down on her pillow, and his thumb brushes against the dried trace of tears on her cheek. Somehow, it seems she hums softly. He's gentle, and looks at her face long in the night's semi-darkness before he sleeps again, too.

-

3.

Sometimes, when his train is running a bit late and hers is unusually early, they meet at the station. His hand alights on her shoulder, startling her, and she turns around with a ready-made protest, before he pulls her up against him, laughing.

She does rant a little against his shoulder, and bites gently into the sensitive skin of his neck, nibbling, just to spite him. He makes a soft hiss, and bows his head so that his hair brushes so against her forehead. She blinks the locks away, irritated.

They talk quietly as they come out of the station, throwing their tickets in the bin, of nonessential things mostly, like maybe they should stop at the ramen store on their way home instead of doing all the cooking-and-dishes business.

"Of course," Aoko huffs. "It's _your_ turn to make dinner for us tonight," and Kaito laughs again. He does that.

He takes her hand when they're out in the half-grey, blissfully lukewarm streets, and his fingers are a bit cold as they interlace with hers.

-

4.

Only Kaito would think of leaving a love note in the fridge and feeling certain she'd find it there.

Aoko chortles, and takes the piece of flying paper away from the milk bottle, reading it for the second time with amusement while she takes a glass down from the kitchen's cupboard. It's yellow and simple, and Kaito's intricate handwriting sprawls on it in an amused cat-like fashion.

'_Off at Jii-chan's. Be right back. Love you.'_

He's scribbled a red heart underneath. Aoko smiles, and slips the note in her pocket. Maybe when he comes back she'll let him know that next time he can always leave it in the living-room, or even in the bedroom, where she's bound to find it. She knows he won't, though, if only to annoy her.

She wishes absentmindedly he'd told her beforehand he was leaving, so she could have asked him to buy some flour and butter on his way home. They're running frightfully low.

Milk runs cool against her throat.

-

5.

They never quite know when they're going to have sex.

Sometimes it's almost planned, because the evening has reeled off _that_ way, and they have waited all along and aren't quite ready to give it up; sometimes anything, a completely involuntary gesture will unfasten it: a lock of hair that trails down on one's cheek, a pink triangle of tongue pinched between one's lips, a few words of nonessential matter, told in a laugh – and they will find each other kissing as though they were never meant to do anything else right then right there.

They like the creaking of the bed as they tumble onto it; they like the weight of body upon body and the warmth and the feel of skin against skin. They like the way Aoko's back is pressed into the mattress, the cool breeze that plays on Kaito's skin. They like the caresses and the kisses, always, and for all this they lose themselves in each other's arms, never quite knowing when or why they're going to make it.

Kaito is surprisingly quiet when he makes love to her; his breathing's ragged and hard but he hardly ever speaks, even for her name. She does, though, and when suddenly she whispers his name in a breathy voice, head tilting back, then he will make a sound of his own, a sharp hiss of sheer pleasure while his face comes down to nestle in the crook of Aoko's shoulder.

In the hazy mist of the afterglow, Kaito leans forward on his elbow, smiling, and trails absently his fingertips on the skin of her breast and stomach.

"It's all right, that way," he murmurs.

-

6.

Apart from the genteel old lady of the first day, not all the neighbours are saints either.

Aoko hears the whispers that follow her as she passes in the staircase, the hypocritically cheerful '_good_ afternoon's and the sideways glances that follow when they think she isn't looking anymore.

She knows all these people – whoever they are, well-meaning great-aunts, gossiping housewives and their leering husbands coming home at the end of the day – don't approve of young people living together without even being married, and, my dear, it's _obvious_ they're a couple, and the whispers follow her all the way to her door.

Most times Kaito is here when she comes home, and he knows instantly something is wrong with her. It takes some cajoling to get her to tell him, and when she does, finally, he wants to go down and drop buckets of icy water on those thick heads of neighbours they've got.

Aoko holds him back, but she laughs, and it's all he wants.

They'll bother about the world outside another day.

-

7.

(No one ever said it would be easy.)

-

8.

They've stored two large, old picture albums in the whatnot. Kaito most probably has forgotten all about them entirely, but Aoko does take them out, when she's home unexpectedly early and there's nothing much to do.

The first half of the photographs are old and dating back to their younger years, back when both her parents were still alive and Kaito's father was, too.

Pictures of them both standing by the clock tower. Her eight-year-old birthday party. Touichi-san teaching them to juggle. Chibi-Keiko with half-long pigtails and a pout. Kaito immerged in Arsene Lupin's novels. Her father at the head of first KID Task Force. The two of them playing ball, a day Aoko still particularly remembers because it's about the only time she beat Kaito at it, and she picks up a pen and writes 'Ah ah aaaah I kicked your butt!' on the page next to it.

The second half is more recent, high school days mostly – Kaito reading KID articles, Keiko giggling insanely, Hakuba drinking tea, Aoko with White Day chocolates, a furious mop chase in Math. class. Aoko vaguely scribbles 'Perv' beside the picture.

Kaito, of course, chooses that moment to come home, and watches the albums with her, sometimes adding some comments of his own –'You were kind and genteel back then,' 'If I see that guy ever again I'll kick his ass,' 'Aah, yes, good day–' and Aoko's furious scrawl beside that– 'SHUT UP!'

He's got a leg on each side of her, and she leans back against his chest, her head tucked under his chin. In times like this, they think they'll be fine, surely.

-

9.

Aoko can be too good to be true.

Sometimes it's the height of summer, when she sits at the window and fans, sighing exaggeratedly the way she does when she wants to attract his attention. She's glancing at him from time to time, when she thinks he isn't looking, and Kaito bits his lips not to smile, pretending not to see.

Some other times it's the morning, and Aoko wanders sleepily in the kitchen, straying by the fridge to get the milk only to notice belatedly that Kaito took it out moments before. She's solely wearing one of his own T-shirts, which is far too big for her, and falls loosely around her figure down to her knees, and she's so innocently unnoticing of the effect of her outfit onto him that Kaito can't help wanting her even more.

He stares at her, wondering if it's possible falling in love all over again with the same person when the first time it was already such a mind-blowing beating, and Aoko looks up and snaps at him to quit staring, damn it.

He recovers quickly and grins, just because he knows it will unnerve her.

Little does he know she thinks exactly the same when he comes out of the shower.

-

10.

It's not all clear sailing from there either. They're both too stubborn and too temperamental for quarrels not to crack up like fireworks – about anything and everything, even wet matches if it comes to that.

Usually Kaito is the one who grabs his jacket and slams the door, and Aoko sinks to the floor, sulking.

Being lovers naturally brings in more trouble than being childhood friends, and she wishes they could pull it off with mop chases like they used to do. She wonders, as of now, what would happen if she grabbed one of her faithful mops and tried to swat him; if he would laugh and dodge, or grab the handle and throw it to the side.

She's afraid in such moments – immensely, exaggeratedly afraid, like a child who counts her fears – that maybe tomorrow there'll be no Kaito in her bed when she wakes, his stuff and books and clothes will be gone, _will never have been there_, and if they meet in the street they'll be nothing more than once-childhood friends who haven't seen each other in years.

She was forced, far too long, to give in to Kaito KID, give in to her father, give in to everything that was Kaito and that wasn't her. And then Kaito came back – hers, hers, _hers_ – but she knows she's still got to learn how to take, after so long she spent giving. It's complicated, and maybe a little too complex for the both of them, and all she can do is wish and hope and go on living and she feels helpless.

The soft sounds of footsteps on the _tatami_, and she looks up at Kaito looking down at her.

(And later, their entangled limbs underneath the sheets, and Kaito's swift fingers in her hair.)

-

11.

It is hot, blindingly, excruciatingly hot, and Aoko moves quietly across their flat.

Kaito is off god-knows-where, of course, and even with her lighter clothes on and the fan going 'tchuk-tchuk-tchuk'-ing in one corner of the room the heat still chokes her breathing. She walks into the kitchen and opens the fridge wide.

The juice she makes is fresh and fruity and just sweet enough not to be sickly, and she drinks it in quick little gulps as she moves back into the living room. The _fuurin_ she tied to the window chimes, the sound just like a drop of crystal water dripping on a long translucent surface, and for some reason, it reminds her vaguely of peaches and watermelons and the day Kaito and her moved in together.

She drops on the floor, her head tilted back. The far-reaching world is not quite there with her. An exhausted bird in the rustling branches of the tree just outside the window. A bee buzzing busily on the ceiling. The chiming of the _fuurin_. The light purr of the fridge in the other room.

Summer sounds, and the sweet taste of juice still on her tongue.

When she wakes up Kaito must have come in noiselessly, because he's seated beside her, with her head on his lap, and is petting her hair gently. Her breath hitches, then relaxes, and she feels his fingers linger.

She doesn't say anything. Kaito smiles.

The _fuurin_ chimes, again.

-

12.

Sometimes when it's so exhaustively hot outside they can't even think of going out, they nestle under the cool sheets of their bed, almost-bare bodies entangled and chuckles echoing lightly from underneath their hiding place.

They laugh and whisper nothings quietly, hushing each other and giggling like children who ought to be asleep. They don't talk much, but they can't help grinning at each other and making sudden, wild motions as though to fling back the bedsheet. The other catches the outstretched arm, brings the captured hand to their lips, smile against the swift-touching fingers , just so. The first who laughs loses.

The game goes on, and the bedsheets are white-blue as they run satin-like on their limbs.

Outside, the light from the setting sun turns to blood-like crimson on the walls of the bedroom, and taints them with a faded shade of red – and, later, with the softer hues of mauve and delicate blues.

They chuckle, quiet.

Reality hasn't caught up with them yet.

-

13.

The old lady living next to them is becoming more and more of an invalid, and they often drop by, one or the other, to say they're going to the _combini_ and does she need anything?

Most times she giggles like a pleased schoolgirl and says, no, thank you, or else asks for very little – a bottle of milk, or some miso soup.

The couple who run the _combini_ begin to know them too, and greet them with an easy smile and an allusion to some trip they made two weeks before, during the Golden Week, and they work the automatic door open for them since it's broken down two years ago.

While they walk back, they meet little girls in uniforms coming home from school, no older than seven or eight, and there's always a girl with shining blue eyes or a boy with dark wild hair in the lot, and they chuckle, just for themselves. It's alright.

They come up the stairs, and knock on the old lady's door, and she's sitting in the exact same position as before, in one of her faded kimonos from when she was eighteen, and offers some iced tea and a wrinkled smile of hers as a thankyou.

One evening around the end of summer, after Kaito has left for his study group, Aoko catches up with him in the night, and kisses him breathlessly.

There's her arms curving around his chest, his hands on her neck and burying in her hair, her feet barely touching the sidewalk, a hurried business man who nearly runs bang into them and a thirteen-year-old girl who passes with a sympathetic giggle.

"I thought you'd told me to get the hell out," Kaito grins, after.

"Idiot," Aoko says.

-

14.

One evening, not very long before their third anniversary, Kaito comes home exhausted and finds Aoko sitting by the window, reading silently and looking up at him. He watches her without a word.

"Kaito?"

It's not often he lets himself strip up and allows weakness, and the look on his face is so intensely needful she wants to rise. But then immediately she finds him crouched at her knees, with his head on her lap and his arms around her waist, gripping at her.

"Kaito, what's the matter?"

(Because if there's one thing they've learnt, it's that they still need to look and speak to understand each other.)

He doesn't reply; at least, not at first. Then she hears her name, whispered breathlessly between his lips, and he could be crying, she doesn't know, his face is buried in the folds of her long skirt. He's shaking lightly, but she pretends to believe it's because he's cold, and hugs him a little tighter.

"Kaito," she murmurs (so they are balanced, at least balanced together) and she wants to smile or cry and she's not really sure which.

"They could just never understand us."

-

15.

In the end, it's the little things that keep them together.

There's a tree growing just in front of their living-room window. When the wind blows just a little, the branches and leaves rustle lightly, sounding just like water.

When they come home one autumn evening, the thin, almost non-existent sound greets them, and their lightless flat is drowned in the cool, merciful blue hues of the falling night. It's soft and a bit cold, maybe, but they've got used to the cold.

They dare not break that silence, but they move quietly. It's the little things. It's the love notes pinned on the fridge, the cool bedsheets in summer, the _fuurin_ chiming, the grim face-looking stain on the kitchen wall, the milk in the evening, the wet matches, the drinks they share sometimes, the _mochi_ and tea, meeting at the station and coming home in the cold. And, in the end, it doesn't matter – so much – the world outside.

So it's alright. It's alright. Because, no matter how far they've gone and how far they'll go, there'll always be another autumn evening and those merciful twilight blues for them.

They start on homework, boil some noodles, drink sweet juice while talking softly, the way they do when there's nothing very important to say except that they're glad to be here. The night falls on, outside, and never makes a sound.

It will be alright.

-

(It's the little things.

But it's precious, and it's true.)

-

**Ofuda:**** they're panels on the wall, sorta to hide the stone, I guess. They're most commonly found in smallish flats or traditional houses.**

**Mochi****: it's a rice sweet quite common in Japan. In spring it can be cherry-flavoured and eaten while viewing the cherry trees bloom (in which case it's called sakura-mochi).**

**Tatami:**** soft panels on the floor.**

**Fuurin:**** a very simple bell that's tied to the windows in summer, since its sound is refreshing and very agreeable.**

**Combini:**** a convenience store that's open 24/7. (Shame on you if you didn't see it before in DC!)**

**I suppose most of you knew about them already, but I thought I'd better. If anyone spots a mistake or something, let me know, 'kay? xD –offers some celebration-cookies– Next update should come pretty soon (and it's gonna be a loooooooong one). Till then, ja! Thanks for reading, minna!**


	9. Educated Dumbass

A/N:

**A/N: This wasn't meant to be so long. It was supposed to be much shorter. I mean it. Much. But the idea for **_**this**_** scenario eluded me like a squirrel all summer, and then eventually it joined with that sadistic muse of mine and kept adding little pieces of it self in even as I wrote along. I survived on milk and cookies.**

**Time-space location (AU, folks!): London. The Thirties. (The golden age of mystery literature and so on.)**

**Warning: The length. (35 pages on Word… I'm dead…) Oh, and Jii-chan's French, too – I wanted to write a bit of French, so the translation for when he's talking with Kaito is a little farther in the story.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the cast for this. I just dressed them up with dresses and top hats and placed them in a completely different context. **

**-**

Educated Dumbass

**-**

MARRIAGES

**Kuroba – Nakamori. **On May 2nd, before the Register, London, Kuroba Kaito, only son of the late Kuroba Toichi, second son of a peer, to Nakamori Aoko, only daughter of Nakamori Ginzo, Prefect of Police of London.

--

Aoko's first thought on Kuroba Kaito was that he looked just like his father.

Minus the moustache. But he had the same tall, lean figure, the same black, untamed hair, the same blue, mocking, I'm-alright-y'know eyes. His stance – as though everything was perfect as far as he was concerned, and if it wasn't he could always laugh at it and forget all about it.

Aoko's second thought on Kuroba Kaito was that he was nothing like his father.

As they crossed the room to each other she could see the minor differences: the dullness of those eyes she remembered happy with mischief in the other man, the cold politeness which he bestowed onto her instead of the cheeky, insolent grin his father had born till the last.

He stopped a few feet from her, hovering there as though hesitant whether he should kiss her or bow, and after a minute of feeling her father's and his mother's gazes onto them from the doorway she extended a hand, firmly.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Nakamori Aoko."

"Kuroba Kaito." He shook the offered hand with a smile, but his eyes remained cool. He didn't look half as embarrassed as she was, only intrigued by her noncommittal attitude. Of course _he_'d gone through many an o-miaï like this before.

It was just for a few hours, she thought, just for a few hours and then she'd be free from this masquerade, from her father's fancy to try and play the matchmaker, from the cold indifference of the man in front of her. She'd be free to return to her own nice flat in downtown London, and forget all about it – maybe call Keiko or drink a glass of something while reading a good book or working on her Litt. thesis…

By the time she emerged from these thoughts, she was seated before her father's desk along with Kuroba Kaito and his mother, and Nakamori senior was reeling down a long list of amendments and articles she wasn't even paying attention to. Probably the enumeration of all the advantages they would benefit from if ever they married – Aoko glanced at Kuroba, who obviously had politely disconnected himself, and then looked out the window, thinking vaguely about telephone wires and rooftop tiles, and, for some reason, the Oxford Bodleian.

"–both families having to benefit from the arrangement, we have decided–"

Blackwell's bookstore was very fine too, Aoko thought absentmindedly. It wasn't very far, either. If she caught the 'bus at the corner of the street, she'd be there way before closing time…

"–the peerage–"

… and so she would be able to chose a good book for tonight. Or two. Or else she could always call a friend and suggest going to see a show – Laura, for instance, always had places for anybody who asked… or Mina-chan…

"–perpetuation of the family's name allied with the fortune of–"

Perpetuation of the family be blown. Her father couldn't _honestly_ believe she'd marry anyone simply because the Kuroba's name needed to be carried out, did he? Had Kuroba Kaito been a little more friendly and open than he was, she might have considered a second before saying no, but the situation being what it was…

"–discreet ceremony and then honeymoon at–"

Kuroba Hiromi was a very beautiful woman, she thought. Even now, the loving way Toichi-san had described his wife to her was fresh in her memory, although almost fifteen years be gone – 'she always looks like she hadn't aged any farther than thirty,' he'd said, laughing. The description still fitted.

"–Kaito-kun here having left for a month–"

Kuroba Kaito was also a handsome man, she had to admit that at least. Keiko used to gather together all the clippings about him in those newspapers where he was talked of, be it about his being second-next-in-line for the peerage or speculations about a girl whom had been seen talking to him at a party or something. Keiko and her gossip, Aoko thought with an inward smile.

"–dot accounts ranging from–"

Oh, kami, she missed Oxford. There at least there would be nothing so ridiculous as this o-miaï – just peace and silent work, large stones gold in the streaming sunlight of the quad and the muffled laughter when one of the scholars in her corridor was coming back to her bedroom after pinching some milk in the buttery…

"–in consequence, the newlyweds will move in together tomorrow afternoon. After which we will make the news of their marriage public–"

"What?" Aoko started.

Kuroba Kaito's blue gaze turned onto her, and her father cut off, mouth open.

"Excuse me," she said, taken with a horrifying thought. He wouldn't have dared… _would _he? "I think I heard wrong. You talked about newlyweds and announcements - Kuroba-san here and I are _not_ married – are we?"

Her father looked sheepish. "Well, actually, Aoko – you are."

--

The explanation that followed was long, confused, and, in Aoko's opinion, completely unconvincing.

"You understand," her father said, "the Kurobas are one of the only Japanese families left in London with which we are not related. As the death of Kuroba Toichi fifteen years ago – or was it longer? well, anyway – it is in every advantage for both families to unite their heirs and as your are both single children we didn't have much of a choice–"

"I don't see how," Aoko snapped. She shook her head violently, no longer caring about her elaborate hairstyle, and glanced at Kuroba Kaito – her _husband­, _kami – to see how he took it all, but he was merely frowning at her father. If he knew about this beforehand, she thought, I'll–

"_How_ could you, father?"

"The ceremony took place before the Register on may 2nd," put in Kuroba Hiromi's quiet voice. "There were no friends or family – aside from your parents – or journalists. It was a simple, quiet ceremony–"

"But it wasn't!"

"Yes it _was_, Aoko-chan. You may not have been there, but the papers were signed, and you and Kaito were declared husband and wife. You then left for your honeymoon, which lasted a month, and only came back yesterday morning–"

"I was in Oxford a month ago."

"–Kaito was in Kent for personal business, so no one will wonder. We will announce your marriage in a few days, and meanwhile you will move in together…"

"This is ridiculous," Aoko shook her head again, thinking fast. Any second she expected to spring up with a triumphing 'Gotcha!" – but no, they all looked determinedly serious about the whole business. But it was _impossible…_ She couldn't be _married_… "We can't be wed without signing something, without even knowing it…"

"You are underage, both of you," her father chanced in. Aoko glared daggers at him.

"I'll be of age in one month–"

"Things in this country would be going much better if majority was fixed at eighteen instead," Kaito put in. It was the first time he spoke since their introduction to one another, and Aoko glanced at him in relief – if he was angry, maybe there'd be a way… but he was just looking properly blank.

Kami…

What happened next was rather a blur to her. She remembered – vaguely – Kaito looking out the window, apparently no longer listening, her father and his mother talking together in a low voice, the chair's back the only actual landmark in the spinning world. Pieces of talk that reached her in bits and bits–

"–certain she'll make up to it."

"–hoping they won't–"

"–everything ready?"

"–yes, Jii-san is getting–"

"–announcements–"

"Very well," Kuroba Kaito said finally, and her head jerked up to look at him, hoping for something, anything– "I will come to fetch her at her place tomorrow in the course of the afternoon. Make sure she's packed…"

He left soon afterwards, hardly glancing at her as he passed her chair, and Aoko bit her lip when she heard the door close softly behind he and his mother. Behind her _husband_… and her stepmother… kami, it was a nightmare…

"Aoko…"

"How could you, Tousan?" she asked without diverting her eyes from the paperweight on the immaculate desk. "How _could_ you?" She glared up at him suddenly, expecting him to shrink away, but he met her with a steadfast gaze which somehow, for some reason, comforted her. A little. If it was possible even to feel calmer in the situation as it was–

"Aoko. You must understand I did it only for your sake…"

"Like hell you did. And they did too, didn't they? they only had my sake at heart? Not your money at all? Not your money because they're broke and you're a prefect of police and it's _better than anything? And you expect me to believe that?"_

"Aoko, you're everything I have–"

She let out a short, barking laugh which made her look slightly mad. "And that's why you married me away. That's why you sold me like we're still in the middle ages – Tousan, this is the twentieth century, for goodness' sake!"

"We will talk about this again when you're calmer," her father said, coolly, and she felt the urge to punch him. "You're obviously not in your normal state–"

"I wonder why," Aoko snarled, and he looked at her then shrugged, a think-whatever-you-want sort of shrug, and it was the final split, the one which had begun long ago, when he'd started caring about his work more than about her. So that was it, Aoko thought, fighting back tears, they were strangers at last, after years of tearing apart, after years of trying to forget as much as possible about each other… they were strangers at last.

"Go back home," he said to her, one hand on the doorframe. "Have a good evening. Pack up. Kaito-kun will come and get you tomorrow afternoon–" Aoko didn't hear the rest of it. She slammed the door in his face, and felt slightly better for it.

Not enough, though. She'd like to slam a door in Kuroba Kaito's face, too.

--

He was, surprisingly, in time.

Aoko had had her things packed by mid-afternoon, had told her landlady she'd leave her flat for an undetermined while, had made her goodbyes to the familiar rooms she'd lived in the two last years, when she wasn't in Oxford. She hadn't resigned herself – she was accepting things as they came, if only to be able to fight them later.

She was just stepping back a little to prepare her counterattack.

That was all…

Kuroba Kaito stopped in front of her building by teatime, in a Chrysler large enough to welcome three times as much luggage as she actually had. She handed him the suitcases and cabinets without a word, and just as silently he charged them inside the car (how strange, she'd have expected he leave that out to a servant) while she waited beside it.

"You can get in, you know," he said finally – the first words pronounced between them – as he shut the trunk. He sat in the driver's seat, and it was only when Aoko settled in by his side that the reality of their situation hit her full in the face, just as he pulled out and slid smoothly onto the driveway. _Husband and wife_…

She'd gotten drunk the evening before, all alone in her flat, by the hearth, but even the bitter taste of alcohol on her tongue couldn't quite sweep her away, nor the hangover of this morning. And as she looked at her _husband_ (the word had never sounded stranger) while he drove through London, easily skirting past the cars and 'buses, she wanted to sulk like a little child who didn't like the joke she was the object of.

She'd have to talk, though, sooner or later.

"Kuroba–"

"You can call me by my first name," he cut in, without even diverting his eyes from the street, "since we're husband and wife now."

"I'm _not_ your wife!" Aoko exclaimed angrily. "Don't start and play the possessive husband on me!" He wasn't, not really, and his blue gaze told her that, but she wouldn't even listen to the logical little voice which murmured in her ear.

She then proceeded to sulk thorough the entire trip.

Kaito (since so she must call him now – _married_) lived in a two-floors apartment not far from Piccadilly Circus. An old, wrinkled man, probably his butler or something, was waiting for them at the door, looking anxious enough under his mask of impassivity.

There was something slightly foreign in his features, which was explained as soon as he addressed Kaito in such fast-speaking French Aoko couldn't catch a word out of ten.

"_Je vous attendais plus tard, jeune maître. Je croyais que vous resteriez un peu ou que la jeune dame désirerait faire ses adieux… l'aménagement de sa chambre et de son salon est achevé mais j'ai bien peur que la cheminée ne nécessite des travaux plus poussés – elle ne tire pas suffisamment pour allumer un feu et–__"_

"_Ne fais pas l'imbécile, Jii-chan,__" _Kaito replied with a flawless accent. "_On n'allume pas de feu en plein Juin. Tu auras tout arrangé parfaitement, comme d'habitude… Aoko voudra voir ses appartements, je suppose – tu peux porter ses bagages dans sa chambre. Dîner à sept heures.__"_

"I will dine alone," said Aoko, who'd only understood the last sentence. The blue gaze trailed on her coldly.

"… very well. Still, I will have to talk to you afterwards. I will come by around eight – I trust you will have finished eating by then."

He walked past the threshold with exasperating easiness, leaving Aoko on the landing to glare at his disappearing back, and Jii-san walking back up the stairs half-crushed under the weight of Aoko's heavier cabinet.

"Wait, let me help you – err, do you speak English at all?" Aoko asked, half reaching for her suitcase and stopping rather shyly. The elder man gave her a wry smile.

"Of course," he said in English, and then switched to perfect Japanese. "Please follow me. I will show you to your rooms – no, don't bother with this, my lady." (My lady. Yes, of course, Toichi-san had been the second son of a peer, and Kaito, his son, being her husband… she was My Lady.)

On his heels, she walked through the first floor's salon and _boudoir_, passed the door which had just closed behind Kaito, then walked up the inner staircase which led to a smaller, more cosy room.

"There you are," Jii-san said, opening a door to the left. "This drawing-room is yours, and your bedroom is _there_," he indicated, pointing. "You have a bathroom with bath and shower place _here_. Will you want anything, my lady? I will go and fetch your luggage immediately. When will you want your dinner brought up?"

"Seven will be fine," Aoko said absentmindedly. "Jii-san…" she turned back to him, frowning. "This is a bachelor's flat, not a newlyweds' apartment."

He looked slightly embarrassed. "Well, yes… I would account for it to you, but no doubt the young master will want to explain all this to you personally. Will that be all, my lady?" he repeated elusively.

As Aoko nodded vaguely, still frowning, he gave her another of his wrinkled smiles, bowed, and left the room leaving her to wonder what the hell this had all been about.

--

(Translation: _I was awaiting you later, young master. I thought you would stay a while or the young woman would wish to make her goodbyes… the equipping of her bedroom and drawing-room are finished but I'm afraid the chimney will want some sweeping – it doesn't draw enough to light a fire and–"_

"_Don't be a fool, Jii-chan. One doesn't light fires in mid-June. You will have arranged for everything perfectly, as always… Aoko will want to see her apartments, I suppose – you can carry her luggage there. Dinner at seven.")_

--

Kaito knocked at her door when the clock struck eight, as he had told. Aoko had finished eating long before, and watched him come in with a slight glare, noticing abstractedly that he'd dropped his grey jacket and was in shirtsleeves. He closed the door softly behind him.

"Well?" she asked before he'd had time to come in much further. "What is it you wanted to tell me?"

She was seated by the cold hearth, and he leant against the chimneypiece, looking down at her with a thoughtful air. Aoko got impatient, fidgeting nervously under those blue eyes she had never been able to resist to, both in the father, and, she suspected, the son. _"Well?"_

"Well, I'll come of age in three weeks," Kaito said, and Aoko's glare at him turned puzzled. "And so will you, I understand, a week later."

"And?"

"And, the both of us being independent, we will be able to do as we will. I'll apply to the Court of Divorce then, and since we neither of us have any real claim on each other, we should be able to come off it by August or September–"

Aoko did a doubletake. "Wha – you want us to divorce?"

"Don't you?" asked the blue-eyed man. "I thought you didn't like the mere idea of this marriage… and so as neither do I… it is the best solution for the both of us. Unless you disagree," he let his voice trail off, as though to say, 'Then you don't know what it is you want.'

"Of course I want to divorce!" Aoko protested indignantly. "But I thought – for the son of a peer – wouldn't that make rather a scandal?"

He shrugged. "I don't really care. So it's settled, then. Of course, in the meantime, we'll have to pretend we're actually married – well, we are – and with you off to Oxford and me in Kent for a month, both of us, we won't have to pretend too hard we've gone to our honeymoon–"

"We are _not_ married!" Aoko exclaimed, rising. Kaito looked at her darkly.

"Are too."

"Are not!"

"We _are_ married, Aoko, whether you want it or not. Our parents signed the necessary papers a month ago, and thus made us, their children, husband and wife. There's nothing we can do about that at present. And if we are to live on together till September, we ought not to start on meaningless quarrels."

"_Fine,"_ Aoko snapped. "But if that's so, we'll have to decide on some conditions. There's no way I'll take your arm in public or kiss you to amuse journalists or play the newlybride ever so possessive about her loving husband–"

"I'm not asking you to. Just pretending is all that'll do."

"–_and_," Aoko insisted, "no claiming your conjugal rights either."

He gave her a long look. "… I wasn't going to," he said finally, in an undertone that clearly said he thought her no screaming big deal. (For some reason, that angered her even more.) But it appeared he had nothing further to say.

"Alright, then. If Jii-chan has carried all your luggage here – do you want anything else?"

She didn't know what was more irritating with him – his apparent care for her comfort or his condescending tone. They both seemed worse than the other, and back again. "Nothing," she fumed. "I just want you to get out of my room."

His ever-blue eyes fastened on her, then he shrugged. "Fine. Goodnight." And walked out without another word.

Aoko dropped herself back in the depths of her armchair, bristling, and tried to remember how the _hell _she could ever have thought him like his father.

--

She was awakened at six the next morning by a brisk, loud rustle of wings just outside her window.

She sat upright in her bed, still dazed, and ran to the window, thinking maybe it was some kind of emergency of something. It wasn't, but about a dozen doves flapped their wings against her face as soon as she had pulled the pane open.

Once she had gotten over the shock both of the wake and the birds, she blinked around, trying to discern something in the brilliant sunlight which streamed on the street below. The roofs were shimmering red, and the thin, lithe shapes of the white doves stood out fast against them, in a constant blur, before they turned less distinct still against the flawlessly blue sky.

"What–?" she stammered, wishing something would suddenly pop up and make sense. The breeze against her skin was cool, and she was shivering in her thin, light nightgown.

The white blur swooped down toward the building again, and all but landed around a balcony on the same story, hardly a few windows away. A dark silhouette stood against the light, arms strewn with doves, and too far for her to make out his face, but she knew it was Kaito.

Of course it was. Only he would keep doves in the neighbourhood, and only he would open his window to them at six in the morning, just to wake everyone who was still sleeping.

She slammed the window shut, fuming.

"I hope the young master didn't wake you up this morning, my lady," Jii-san asked her when he served her breakfast – she'd demanded she'd eat in her apartments every meal, if only to spite Kaito. Who didn't seem to care. Obviously the whole pretending-to-be-husband-and-wife business didn't stand at home.

"As a matter of fact, he did," Aoko groaned, stabbing her scrambled eggs with an angry fork. "What business does he have leaving his doves out so early in the morning, anyway?"

"Toichi-san used to do it as well," Jii-san said, wistfully. "The young master just took it up when his father died. It is a habit, really. I daresay he did not think it might awake you – he is not used to welcoming young ladies inside the house, I must say."

That was a bit strange, considering the amount of girls and women he had been said to see regularly, but Aoko didn't pick it up. "That's the problem – he doesn't think," she said, but without conviction. Then, with renewed exasperation, "Is he always so proud and self-conscious anyway?"

Jii-san was looking down at her strangely, and for a second she was stricken by the idea that he may not know about their marriage in-name-only; but obviously he did. "Kaito-san is a very caring young man," he said, a little stiffly. "I'm sure if you just gave him a chance, my lady, you would–"

Presently the phone rang, and Jii-san ran away to get it in the next room. _Would what?_ Aoko thought, looking at his back. He returned to her almost immediately. "My lady, a phone call for you."

"For me?" Aoko repeated, and knew it must be her father. No one else (yet) knew she was living here.

"A very – er – enthusiastic young woman," Jii-san added cautiously, and Aoko picked up the phone more puzzled than ever.

"Hello?"

"Aoko-_chaaaaaan!" _Keiko's high-pitched voice whined in her ear. "How dare you get married without letting me know! And with one of the cutest lambs of the generation, too! You were even off in a honeymoon and _you didn't tell me anything? How dare you do that to me, Aoko-chaaaaan?"_

"Keiko," Aoko breathed out. "How did you know I was here?"

"Your father told me, of _course._ Oh, he was very kind, even gave me the _number_ and _everything_, but of course I couldn't _wait_ to get to talk to you at last, _dear!_ So tell me, how is it like being _married_ to Kuroba Kaito? Oh, and you didn't even invite me to the ceremony_…"_

"Uh…"

"And the _honeymoon_, too! Oh, it must have been _fantastic!_ Tell me everything, darling. I suppose you went to France's _Côte d'Azur_ – that's _the_ place to go, of course. It must have been _beautiful, _truly_…_ Oh, I envy you _so_ much! And you came back to London and didn't let me know, naughty girl! But now you shall _not_ escape me. You will tell me _everything_ _I want to know_! How did you come to know Kuroba-sama in the first place?"

Aoko took a deep breath and dashed away in a long lie.

"… and so we started to correspond while he was, err, away on business, and I guess that was settled from the time when he sent me a letter ending with, 'If I have to come to that I will die in your arms,' and…"

"Darling, how _fantastic!"_ giggled Keiko, who'd always loved cheap romances. "Just like something out of a book!"

Aoko smiled at the window, letting her friend babble on – then frowned at Kaito who'd just entered the room through the door in her back and had picked up the other receiver to listen to their conversation.

"–you must have looked _beautiful_ in white – what flowers did you carry, I wonder? White roses or orange blossoms?"

"Keiko, I'm going to have to hang up," Aoko cut in, still glaring at Kaito. "I've got to… I've got to go now. It was great talking to you again. Please drop by one of these days for tea. You know you're always welcome at my house…"

"Oh, but we've only talked _five minutes–" click._

"How dare you!" Aoko fumed. "How dare you listen to my conversation with a _friend of mine?_ It's not like you're concerned in it or anything–" Kaito put the receiver down, looking stoic and very much in his right.

"It's my house," he remarked. "And besides, it looks like I _was_ concerned, since you were talking about our wedding…"

"There was no wedding!" Aoko bristled. "There was an arrangement between our parents – a marriage in name only, and we're going to get out of it in a few months. It had nothing whatsoever to do with us!"

"You were inventing a pretty story for that friend of yours, though."

"That was just because Keiko was demanding details and I couldn't quite give her any, could I?"

"No," he shot back, hard-mouthed, "but she sounds just like the kind of girl who'd give anything for juicy news and then spreads them round at light speed, with more details of her own invention. Strange as it may seem, I don't want my wife or myself to be laughed at–"

That was the final mistake. "I'm _not_ your wife," Aoko hissed, picking up a vase on the chimneypiece and lifting it threateningly at him. "Get out."

"Put that down," he said, coolly. "That's china."

"_Get out."_

That was the last she saw of him that day. He kept locked up in his office till four, then departed – she heard the front door slam – and Jii-san informed her as he served dinner that he'd gone to see a show with some friends, with whom he would eat afterwards.

It was late into the night when she heard him come back in. Lying restlessly in her bed, she overheard the muffled voices of his and Jii-san's as they conferred together on the first floor, then the slow creaking of the stairs' steps when he came up, and later, the closing sound of a door.

Aoko turned her head in her pillow and slept.

--

Her second morning in Kaito's flat was even worse, if possible, than the first. Jii-san brought her the papers when he came in with breakfast, and she had hardly opened them that headlines of different types and sizes but all flashing up to the eye made her realize what it was exactly she'd let herself in for.

'FAMOUS HEIR MARRIES PREFECT OF POLICE'S DAUGHTER'

'KUROBA KAITO UNEXPECTEDLY WED'

'THE PRINCE AND THE SHEPHERDESS'

'Quiet ceremony on May 2nd'

'Secret engagement'

'Honeymoon in France'

There were photographs of Kaito on every front page, and old pictures of herself at fifteen which did her no credit at all, plus short biographies of her life (all of which excepting her Oxford years, for some reason). If one newspaper said of her that she was 'a lovely girl with a beautiful complexion and stunning dispositions for nobility' (whatever that meant), another described her as 'a well-off maiden who would do anything to latch of a member of aristocracy, the grandson of a peer being better than nothing at all.'

Her father and his mother had said a few, official words about the ceremony and a supposed secret engagement dating back to five years, and some skilled reporter had even dug up Keiko, who no doubt had been delighted to give away any information she held.

Aoko read it through, and instantly knew it had been a great mistake to tell Keiko everything she'd invented for her the morning before.

'_Why, yes,'_ the interview went, '_of course I knew about their engagement – they were corresponding, you know, and Aoko always was in a sort of daze when she emerged from his letters. They had to keep it secret, you see, because they were so young, but eventually I suppose their parents must have gotten used to the idea (they weren't so keen on it at first, of course) and so they were married._

'_I didn't get to assist to the ceremony, because it was to be so quiet and simple, and they didn't want to attract attention, but I did see them off to their honeymoon. Aoko looked beautiful in her white dress and orange blossoms. They went to France, see, on the _Côte d'Azur_, which is the perfect place for newlyweds, and remained there for a whole month, after which they came–"_

That does it, Aoko fumed, putting the papers down and making briskly for the door. I'm going to see Kaito and tell him I'm going back home, arranged marriage or no. It's high time something's done with the situation anyway–

He was standing with her back at her at the foot of the staircase, in a grey suit with a soft hat, and seemed to be waiting for something. "Kaito!" she called out angrily, galloping down to meet him, and prepared for another fight.

He turned and, lo and behold, it wasn't him at all. It could have been his brother, though – he had the same black hair, though tamer, the same blue eyes, the same figure, if only slightly taller. He met her, as she slowed down highly embarrassed, with an amused smile and an outstretched hand.

"Sorry – wrong person. I'm just a visitor. My name is Kudo Shinichi–"

"Oh – I'm Na– Kuroba Aoko," she replied with a flush, cringing mentally. A marriage in name only, she told herself severely. In-name-only. Apparently unconcerned, Kudo Shinichi shook her hand briefly, then looked onto her with the same half-grin.

"So you're Kuroba's new bride. It's nice meeting you – I read about you," he indicated the newspaper tucked in his jacket pocket, "and of course I've met your father several times. Though I believe not much of it is half true – is it?" His eyes seemed to be looking through her with alarming easiness. Not really like Kaito's–

"Not much," she agreed, still flushing.

"Will you believe me if I tell you that in the four years that lasted our acquaintance and friendship, Kuroba never so much as mention your name–"

"And you, Kudo," came a light, mocking voice from the floor above, and they both looked up to see Kaito leaning over the banister with a soft grin Aoko had never before seen on his face, "are no one to talk. If you only came back from your trips on the _day you said_ and not two weeks afterwards–" He came down the stairs with his hands in his pockets, looking glad enough to see him. His eyes swept on Aoko more softly than the day before.

"Ah, Kuroba – nice to see you too," Kudo grinned back. "I've just met your wife – she thought I was you, you know…"

"You did?" Kaito asked her, sounding genuinely surprised. Aoko nodded gruffly, and he smiled at her again – and for a reason that had absolutely nothing to do with it at all, her heart began to make saltos.

It was over just as soon, however – Kaito led Kudo in his bureau, saying gravely they had to talk, and Aoko walked back up to her rooms, feeling disappointed and slightly disgruntled. She didn't know when exactly Kudo left, but probably before noon, for she had just finished her lunch when Kaito knocked at her door.

"We're going out tonight," he said to her. "You might want to dress up."

"Going out?" Aoko repeated blankly. "Where?"

"Yes – Kudo and a bunch of others have decided to hold a late bachelor's party for me – and a welcome party for you at the same time, I suppose. Seems that Kudo has nothing better to do after a month-long absence," he added a bit irritatingly. "So put on something nice."

"I suppose we can't avoid going?" Aoko asked hopefully. He looked at her, and shrugged.

"No. We can't."

He'd said to dress up, but she rather doubted any of the clothes she'd brought with her would quite qualify for a dancing evening in aristocracy. Eventually she resolved on a simple, fitting dress, which would at least spare her the shame of being thought over-sophisticated with too much jewellery and too many ornaments, but when she came down at eight Kaito was waiting for her downstairs in full evening dress. He gave her critical look, but made no comment, and gave her a long coat to put on before they came out in the street.

Jii-san had called for a cab (probably it didn't do to arrive at a party in one's own car, a breach of etiquette she didn't know about), and they settled on each side of each window, pointedly looking at everything that was not each other. With a lurch, the taxi pulled forwards.

Probably, Aoko thought, annoyed by Kaito's lack of reaction, he was thinking up methods of teaching her how to introduce herself to whoever she'd meet, how to not appear impolite, how to keep in her place, the mistakes to avoid which she would necessarily commit – the smug, educated dumbass–

"I know it's difficult for you to settle in a new background and meet another circle of friends," he said finally, and she waited for him to say she was too inexperienced, to say she needed taming. "But put up with it. You'll fit in all right."

Or he was going to let her ridicule herself. _Proud, indifferent…_ "And what's _that_ supposed to mean?" she spat out.

He looked at her. "… nothing," he said disgustedly, and looked back out the window. It was only to look back in immediately, and rap softly on the glass pane which separated them from the driver's seat. "Oï, man. Stop here a minute."

The cab slowed, and Kaito dashed out before Aoko had time to understand. She bent to look outside. It was the clock tower here, the clock tower where so many times– unsettled, she saw Kaito stoop at the foot of it and pull out something red – _what _was he doing exactly? He laid the red thing on a stone. From afar it looked like a flower… then he was back, climbing back in the car and pulling the door shut.

Aoko raised her eyebrows at him. "What was that for?"

"A tradition," he replied easily. "Something I think I owe my father." He sat back in his seat and gazed wistfully back out the window, and Aoko dared not speak again till a few minutes had elapsed.

"I don't dance," she said then, abruptly.

Kaito glanced at her. "Of course you do. Your father told me so."

"No, I – I mean, yes, I _can_ dance," Aoko elaborated, "but I don't. I had few lessons when I was a child, but it was so long ago, and when I tried again a few years back I danced like a penguin. Ever since, I don't – simply _don't_ dance. I stay on the side and talk."

Kaito looked back out the window, at the rapidly darkening shadows. "Well, maybe all you need is the right partner."

"And that would be you?" Aoko bit down, exasperated by his nonchalant, indifferent attitude.

"We'll see soon, at any rate."

Wonderful, Aoko thought disgustedly. She was not only going to ridicule herself with her inelegant dress and lack of manners, she was also going to trip over her own foot and make a bloody fool of herself on the dancefloor with a godforsaken husband who didn't care two pennies for her. Wonderful.

--

The Kudo household was gigantic.

A white-gloved manservant met them at the front door, nodding at Kaito like some old acquaintance, and let them both in, booming in a stentorian voice, "My lord Kuroba Kaito and lady!" loud enough for almost everyone in the grand room to turn and stare at them. Aoko inched instinctively closer to Kaito, and he squeezed lightly the arm she'd slid under his.

Kudo was already coming forward to meet them with a genial face and a few words of welcome. "Aoko-san, how nice to see you again… Kuroba, don't stay planted there like a tree. Your wife will want to meet our guests. Ran seems to have disappeared," he added, looking round with a slight frown, "I apologize – but she will be there presently."

Aoko heard him ask the manservant to go looking for Ran, whoever Ran was, while Kaito carried her away to introduce her to an easy fifty guests. She shook hands, smiled pleasantly, bobbed her head, curtseyed, spoke 'How do you do's and 'pleased to meet you's, tried not to trip on the corner of her tumbling shawl, clutched Kaito's arm like a harpy to avoid losing him in the crowd, and eventually, among the blur of colours and voices, found Kudo laughing behind them and pushing them toward the dancefloor, "Kuroba, this is your bachelor's party, after all!"

Dancing couples obligingly moved away to make room for them, and Kaito grabbed her hand firmly, one arm sneaking round her waist. "Just stay calm," he advised coolly in her ear. "You'll do fine." He spoke with a kind of detached care which only infuriated her more.

Aoko took a deep breath and didn't answer, trying to concentrate on the steps she'd been taught – how long ago? Her hand was shaking in Kaito's longer one, and she let him lead, feeling it better to just forget her anger at him for the moment and keep focused on dancing. One, two, three… one, two, three… one, two… one step up, two steps back. One step up, two steps back.

Surprisingly, it was better than she'd expected, and she even found herself relaxing, just so. Kaito was leading her around the dancefloor with a firm hand, his hair tickling her left cheek and breath coming down on her neck before he looked up and gazed at her seriously. Aoko looked away.

His mouth was just against her ear. "Aoko–"

"Oh, Kaito-kun!" a young woman with as high-pitched a voice as Keiko's cried out from the side of the dancefloor they were currently waltzing past. Aoko started. "How could you get married to someone that's not me, you naughty boy! You should have known I'd never let anyone get between you and me–"

Kaito led them both away, his face closing back into ice age.

They were silent all the rest of the way. Aoko did not trip over hers or anybody's feet, and was agreeably surprised – it seemed that despite the long years that had gone since she'd taken lessons, her body still remembered the dancing steps it'd been taught. The few times she'd tried over the last five years had inevitably led to disaster, whichever the partner, but this time it was all right… this time it was easy.

As their waltz finished Kaito led her back to the side of the floor, bowed deeply, and walked away without a word. Aoko turned away, thinking, _Maybe all you need is the right partner_, and very grumpily _not_ accepting the truth of that assertion.

Kudo came up a few minutes later to claim her hand as well, and she only tripped twice, each time profusely apologizing to a laughing Shinichi. "It's all right," he said to her, after she very nearly threw herself over his outstretched arm. "Ran was like you, you know," and though Aoko still had no idea who said Ran was there was enough affection in her partner's voice for her to understand.

When that was over there was nothing much to do. She went down to the bar and vaguely engaged conversation with a girl who seemed to be waiting for something. When that lady's young man came forwards to ask her to dance, there was no one near in the immediately vicinity. Aoko yawned, gulped the last of her drink, and wandered away.

She knew no one, and no one knew her. Of Kaito's manifold introductions to half the room half an hour ago she only remembered blurred faces and voices, and she could not find any of those who were still fresh in her memory – and besides, to tell them what? She felt stares follow her as she passed past groups aimlessly; she wondered where the trouble lay – her dress, her lack of manners, her way of walking?

Eventually she sat down to listen to an old colonel from the Marines who was delighted to have someone to talk to. He veered away in a long monologue, about what, she couldn't be sure, something about velvet-covered armchairs and asparaguses… Aoko's attention strayed away.

"Of course it's a recurrent position, my dear young lady, I'm sure you agree, you must have been confronted to the same kind of situation yourself–"

Aoko fell into a dream. Kudo was standing in the doorway, welcoming in more guests, and Kaito – she looked around – was dancing with a young woman who had her back at her, so all Aoko could see was her long, silky hair and expensive dress. She danced far better than Aoko ever should. As they swept smoothly on her side of the dancefloor, a few couples away, she heard Kaito laugh.

One couldn't breathe in here. It was stifling, all the windows were closed, and Aoko was feeling soft of nauseous. She excused herself rapidly to the colonel from the Marines, and fled hastily into a smallish room at her elbow.

It was deserted and dark, and once the door closed the sounds of the party muffled up. As Aoko wandered away in the long corridors, they vanished altogether.

It was colder here, and silent. Aoko stopped in a large, windy room with all the windowpanes wide open, blue and black and grey, and hugged herself, taking deep breaths. It was better here. She was at least spared the amused looks on her dress, and Kaito's–

"Hullo!" a feminine voice called out from the balcony, and Aoko started.

"Oh – I'm so sorry – I didn't know there was anyone there," she explained, turning to go, but the voice called her back.

"Come and sit with me, will you?" Aoko stepped onto the balcony to meet the sight of a young woman a few years older than herself, but otherwise her splitting image. She was smoking, and grinned at her. "Hullo! I don't know you. Which means that, logically, you must be Kuroba's new bride – I'm Kudo Ran, by the way. I think you met my husband this morning." She tapped lightly on the stone beside her to beckon her over.

"I – yes," Aoko said, rapidly recovering. No wonder Kudo couldn't find her if she was here smoking. Ran caught her lingering gaze on her cigarette and grinned again.

"Shinichi doesn't like me to smoke. Can't blame him, though. So you _are_ Kuroba's wife at last. It was high time, I gather. Kuroba always told us about you, poor bloke… He was smitten, all right."

"Oh, surely not," Aoko protested, feeling he must have been talking of another girl entirely – but she didn't tell her that. "I rather doubt Kaito would tell anything about me to anyone."

"But he did, he did!" Ran exclaimed, with a fresh laugh. She had this kind of elder-sister look which immediately entrusted Aoko to her – and she had yearned for a companion to tell everything to for so long… Keiko was no confident, and Kaito – still less.

"Is all this story about a five-years-long engagement true, by the way, or is it just journalists making crap up? I don't really figure Kuroba sending you romantic letters, for some reason… newspapers would do anything to gather some juicy news, be them true or not. They don't care two pence about verisimilitude."

"Nothing of what the newspapers said is true!" Aoko exclaimed belligerently. "… If they had _known_ the actual truth, they would have been much more delighted, I think. But I guess our parents took care of making things sound credible enough–"

"What do you mean?"

Aoko looked at her, and blurted out, exhaustedly, "It wasn't a romantic wedding at all. There was_ no_ wedding. It was a commitment between our families – a deal our parents made… nothing, _nothing_ of Kaito's relationship with me is true."

Ran was staring at her with eyes so wide they swallowed a third of her face. Presently recovering herself, she tapped the balcony beside her again and said, "Sit _down_. I think you've got many things to explain."

Aoko took a deep breath, and explained away.

--

"I see," Ran said gloomily, when she had finished. She extracted a fresh cigarette from a silver case, and proceeded to light it. "Well, all I can say is, that's a bloody mess you're in. No wonder Shinichi didn't tell me that."

"You think he knows, then?"

"Of course he knows. Kuroba's his best friend. He was his best man at our wedding…" Ran fell into a contemplative silence, which she shook herself out of after a minute. "How do you manage living together? You haven't ripped each other to shreds, it seems – yet."

"We don't. Live together, I mean. I stay in my rooms all day, and he either goes out or closes himself up in his bureau." She ran a thoughtful hand in her hair. "He's… –the flat's so large and silent, I'm never sure I mightn't break something fragile just by moving."

"That butler man of his is very fine, though."

"Oh, old Jii-chan is alright. He's wonderful with stuff. He's doing all the cooking, and he's got to have nerves of steel with such an employer as Kaito. He's the only one who's been remotely civil with me so far," she laughed. "Apart from you and your husband…"

Ran sighed and stubbed out the end of her cigarette. "We should go back," she suggested, getting to her feet. "Shinichi is probably having a fit – he should be used to it after knowing me so long – and Kaito must be worried about you."

"I don't think so," Aoko murmured.

"You should. You never know." Ran took her arm firmly and led her away on through the dark, blue rooms up to a door Aoko had never seen in her life. She probably would have lost herself a thousand times over if she had tried coming back on her own. "Let's just look happy and chatty about everything, shall we?" Ran grinned again, and pushed open the door.

They hadn't gone three steps in before Shinichi fell on their backs like a fury.

"Ran! Honestly, I know you don't like those parties so much but you could pull yourself together for at least a few moments – I wanted to introduce Kuroba's new wife to you but now she seems to have disappeared, too…" He stopped short at the sight of Aoko. "Oh. Well. It seems that you found each other."

"So we did," said Ran, sweetly, but Aoko wasn't listening anymore. Kaito was still dancing, with the same young woman. She recognised the long, silky dress and expensive dress, and as they swirled around expertedly she saw her face, handsome and laughing and well-defined. She was a very beautiful woman.

So much for Kaito worrying for her at all, she thought.

"Ran-chan. Who is that girl Kaito is dancing with?"

"Who? …oh. It's–" Here Ran appeared to be picking her words cautiously. "She's Koizumi Akako. I think you may have heard of her."

That was an understatement, and as she looked into the attractive face of the woman on the dancefloor, Aoko thought she understood why. Koizumi Akako was one of the richest heiresses in London, one of the most coveted too. Just like Kaito was. Just like Kaito had been…

Ran seemed to have perceived her confusion, and did not say anything. Her hold on Aoko's arm just tightened a little.

A young man who'd been standing with his back at them stepped back then, just as Aoko forced her gaze away, gently shoved her elbow aside and very nearly knocked her glass of – champagne or something – all over the front of her dress. He turned immediately, with on his lips a quick apology, and a just as easy smile when he laid his eyes on her.

"Frightfully sorry, _mademoiselle_ – why, Ran-san, you never told me you had such a lovely friend." His voice was rich and smooth, and if his fair hair and light eyes indicated he was English, there was something oddly Japanese in his features. "You might at least have the decency to introduce us to each other."

Ran looked very much as though she could have spared the task. "Aoko-chan, this is Hakuba Saguru," she said reluctantly. "Hakuba-kun, this is Kuroba Aoko," and if Aoko had thought the man's interest on her would deflate once he knew who she was and who she was married to, she was disappointed.

His smile grew ten-fold, and he snatched the hand she'd extended to shake his and lifted it gallantly to his lips, with a charming smile. In the corner of her eye, Aoko saw Kaito approach them, his partner still latching onto his arm.

"Why, so you are Kuroba's new bride – what you saw in him, I wonder… ah, Kuroba, here you are." He didn't seem embarrassed in the least. "I was just making the acquaintance of your lovely wife. No wonder you wouldn't show her to us till now… but I see you've been neglecting her," he added, with a hard look on Koizumi Akako. "Maybe the neglected lady would accept _me_ as a dancing partner, instead?"

"_Hakuba…"_Kaito began, threateningly.

Aoko glared at him, a don't-you-even-speak sort of glare, and to Hakuba Saguru, "I _will_ dance, thank you," and Ran had hardly the time to whisper hurriedly in her ear to be cautious that he'd already dragged her away on the dancefloor.

"Well, well, well," he murmured, once they were out of earshot. "Already tensions in the married couple?"

"_No," _Aoko immediately retorted, knowing it was the worst thing to say, and he smiled sweetly at her.

"I am glad of it. Very glad indeed."

They swept a moment in silence. He danced differently from Kaito, more intricately, and Aoko had to do her best to follow his complicated steps, so she almost didn't hear his next words, "You're completely different from what I expected, you know."

"Really?" she said, absentmindedly, concentrating mainly on the convoluted figure they were elaborating.

"Oh, yes. From what I read in the newspapers, I expected you to be one of those dreadful modern girls, with blue stockings and ideas about sending women to Oxford. Thankfully, I see you are nothing of that – a girl from the ancient century, sweet-tempered and innocent." She couldn't quite be sure if he was serious or not, and half made up her mind to tell him she _was_ one of these women with ideas who'd gone to Oxford, but resolved on not. Hakuba caught sight of her smile, however.

"You should smile more often," he whispered. "You should dance with me more often, too… so tell me, lady, what in the world possessed you to marry Kuroba Kaito? Surely it can't have been love."

He was sporting the seductive grin which must have thrown a hundred women to his knees, and Aoko had no envy to be added up to them. But the image of Kaito laughing with Koizumi Akako imprinted itself on her mind, and she threw caution to the winds… "Maybe – not," she chanted, and Hakuba looked delighted.

"Aah… there I think we both agree," he murmured, leaning down so that his mouth was just against her ear. His arm tightened a little around her waist.

"Perhaps we do not, though," Aoko murmured back, pushing him away gently, but firmly. Hakuba grinned again.

"I am not one to be discouraged so easily–" the music was drawing to an end, and he led her away from the dancefloor, on the far other side from whence they had started. His hand was still holding hers. "If you must know, I'll–"

"Aoko."

Aoko jumped. "Don't _do_ that!" she exclaimed, glaring at her husband. "Next time you sneak up on me like that, I swear I'll–"

"I was looking for you," Kaito cut in, apparently unconcerned with her ranting. "I asked for a cab. It's waiting for us at the door. Come and say goodbye to Kudo and Ran-san." His eyes turned a fraction of second onto Hakuba, but didn't linger, and returned to her immediately.

"But the evening isn't even half-gone," protested the other man, just as Aoko hissed, "Don't _give me orders!"_

"I'm afraid we can't stay longer," Kaito replied rapidly. "An unexpected emergency is calling us back home immediately. Come _on_, Aoko. We're in a hurry now." He grabbed his wife's wrist and made to lead her away.

"Wait." Aoko pulled back. "Thank you," she said to Hakuba. "For the dance."

"_Aoko–"_

"Thank you," she repeated. "I mean it."

Hakuba took her hand and kissed it, again. "Lovely ladies deserve lovely treatments," he whispered, and Kaito stole her away.

They said goodbye to Kudo and Ran in a hurry, were led outside in the blue night by yet another white-gloved servant, and waited in the cold for their cab to be brought up to the front steps. They had hardly come down them and Aoko immediately rounded on her husband. "How _dare_ you come and interrupt us like that! How _dare _you take me away? How _dare you?_ What do you think you can do with me? Who do you think you are to order me around? You smug, self-righteous little swine–"

"You're my wife," Kaito said, and took advantage that she was choking with indignation to take her arm again and drag her over to the door of their cab. "Climb in."

The door closed on them, and with a lurch the car dashed forwards, upsetting them, but Aoko didn't care. "I'm _not_ your wife!"

"You are. You are for now, Aoko – and let me speak! You don't know Hakuba Saguru. You don't know what he's done. He's made a habit of seducing every married woman he can – the only one I know who's been resisting him is Ran-san. If he starts attacking you–"

"Then I'm not to worry," Aoko spat. "I'm _not_ married."

Kaito's glare onto her got colder still. "I don't care what you say. This is the situation, and we'll have to make up to it for now. I thought I'd made that clear. Now, if you intend to make me, or yourself, the laughingstock of the whole aristocracy–"

"What about you, if it comes to that?" Aoko exclaimed, in a voice that rose into alarmingly high-pitched tones. "You've danced with me once when I'm supposed to be your wife, but that didn't bother you to dance twice or more with other women – if you prefer the company of one Koizumi Akako to mine you have no lesson whatsoever to teach me!"

Kaito looked up at her immediately, and in the blue of those eyes Aoko was caught breathless. She already regretted her outburst, and looked away, hoping the relative obscurity of the cab was dark enough to conceal her flush. She did _not_ want to give him anything easy. She did _not_ want to give anything away. She huddled in a corner of the car and kept her eyes resolutely fastened on the town lights passing by, and Kaito was silent as much as she was.

She wanted, idiotically, to burst into tears. She refrained them, however – Kaito would be far too pleased. No weaknesses… they would fight this out until one of them fell. No weaknesses. No weaknesses. –She tightened her shawl around herself. It was cold.

They reached home in utmost silence. Jii-san appeared to open the door while Kaito was paying the cab's fee, and Aoko dashed inside without a word.

She rushed upstairs, her shawl falling loosely behind her, hesitated a second in the corridor, and made for her bedroom. Just as she opened the door, however, Kaito grabbed her wrist again, making her stop cold; and she glanced up at him, glaring through her bangs. He was slightly breathless. He must have run after her.

"Aoko…"

"I'm going to bed," she murmured, looking down, and pushed her way out of his grip, past the door, and inside her bedroom.

She didn't want to cry anymore.

--

Aoko's first thought in the morning was that she was going to see her father and telling him she was putting an end to this masquerade, and then she was going home. _Home._ Far away from Kuroba Kaito's and Hakuba Saguru's… far away from them all, just alone and _home_.

By the time Jii-chan brought her breakfast, she'd revised that. She was going home directly, without even stopping at her father's. He would only try and persuade her not to anyway, and Kaito could rant all he wanted at her decision, she didn't care. If she left this morning he wouldn't worry about her till tonight and…

She was wondering lazily whether there was a plan of the London underground somewhere on this floor when Kaito knocked softly on her open door.

"Can we talk?" he asked, which surprised her. Usually he didn't ask, he just fired away without warning. Biting her lips for want of a better response, she nodded grudgingly, and Kaito came in _(back away! back a-way!)_ – but hesitantly, as though he wasn't quite sure exactly what he was going to say. Aoko had lived with him long enough by now to know Kuroba Kaito was never at a loss for words…

"What is it?" she asked, not unkindly.

"I – listen, we need to stop. We need to stop arguing like we do all day – it won't lead us anywhere… I'm sorry," he said belatedly. Aoko gaped, surprise such that it brought her to her feet.

"You're _what_?"

"I apologize." He was looking at her directly, and she felt he wasn't backing away at all. "I shouldn't have been so harsh with you yesterday night. Of course you couldn't know who Hakuba Saguru is behind his good looks. But you'd disappeared and when I found you again you were with him… I guess I must have freaked out," he added with a sheepish laugh.

It was like floating in mid-air.

"No – _I_ apologize," Aoko murmured, only half-believing her own ears and mouth. "I – I've acted like a spoilt child all long. I know it hasn't been easy for you either, and you don't like the situation any more than I do… but I needed someone to take it out on, I guess. I'm sorry. I mean it," she added, as he stared at her, dumbfounded.

"… I guess we're both bloody idiots, then, aren't we?" he grinned suddenly, and Aoko immediately felt the temperature crank up a few degrees. She had never realized the room had been so cold before he'd come in. She grinned back.

"Yeah."

"Truce, then?"

"… truce."

"Starting back," Kaito said again, and extended a hand. "Nice to meet you. I'm Kuroba Kaito – an educated dumbass." His smile stretched out a little.

Aoko shook his hand. "Charmed. Nakamori Aoko, first-class fool." She laughed suddenly. Kami, what a situation. They should have done this ages ago instead of biting off at each other like two frightened beasts… he must be as stubborn and thick-headed as she was, she thought wryly. Incidentally, too, they were married.

Kaito was holding her hand still and smiling vaguely – just like Toichi-san used to… it was in the strangest moments that the son reminded her of the father, but it came to her more and more frequently.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked suddenly, and she was startled out of her thoughts. He'd let go of her hand, and she felt it fall nimbly back to her side.

"I… yes. Very well. Although those birds of yours woke me up _again_," she wrinkled her nose. "But _you_ didn't," she added, remarking belatedly the grey rings under his eyes. "Have you been working late again?"

"Yes…" he rubbed his jawline tiredly. "I'm working on some tough papers…" His eyes were wistful and slow. It was strange actually having a civilised conversation with him. "Something I just can't understand–" he stopped abruptly and grinned down at her again. "How do you know I'm working late often anyway? Have you been stalking me?"

Aoko flushed beat-red. "Of course not. Jii-chan told me. He said you were locking yourself up in your bureau with papers and a coffee pot and there was still light under the door when he put the lamps off and went to bed himself," she elaborated.

"Sometimes I fall asleep there," Kaito murmured absentmindedly. "I'm too tired to walk up to bed, so I just pop down in one of the armchairs and get a bit of sleep… which usually results in having a nice cramp in the neck the next day," he grimaced. "I'd better go back to it. I'm glad we had this conversation, Aoko."

There was the way he said her name, softly and carefully, as though it was an object of attention… at the door he stopped.

"Aoko, will you lunch downstairs with me today?"

She found herself nodding.

--

After that discussion the next two weeks elapsed by quietly enough.

Both husband and wife respected the truce, and the household was comparatively tranquil and noiseless. Aoko even caught Jii-chan humming to himself once she sneaked up on him in the kitchen. Kaito laughed his head off when she told him that.

They didn't spend much more time with each other. They had their meals together (expect breakfast, which Jii-chan brought to both in their rooms) but otherwise Kaito mostly kept himself locked up in his bureau and worked for days on end. Sometimes he would dash out to tell her he wouldn't be dining with her that night, too much work to absorb himself in, and dash right back in, his hair more dishevelled than ever.

By the end of that first week she received a telegram from her father. It couldn't have been shorter.

'Hope you're doing fine with Kaito-kun. All for your sake. Love. N.G.'

Of course it would have been much too time-consuming to write a letter or even pick up the phone, Aoko fumed, crumpling the paper. And what was that about waiting two weeks before he took care of her wellbeing?

Kaito would want to know about this, of course…

She met him, not in his bureau for once, but on the downstairs phone. He was in

shirtsleeves, and obviously had ran his hand in his hair several times already, for it was wilder than she had ever seen it.

"Mother – no, of course, everything's doing fine. No, really. And Jii-chan's been acting as a perfect chaperone, so you needn't worry." He laughed, and turning his eyes to the door, caught sight of her. He smiled. "Keep it low, Aoko's eavesdropping."

Aoko smiled back and closed the door softly.

After reflection, she wired back to her father, 'All for the best', and didn't sign it off. Both N.A and K.A would have sent him in a fit of nerves anyway.

They went to see a show twice, and dined with the Kudos once, in a simple, quiet restaurant which seemed to be a personal favourite. The location was agreeable and without affectation, and Ran took Aoko aside after coffee.

"Well. It seems that you two haven't ripped each other shreds yet," she said, lighting a cigarette. "Have you called up a truce or something?"

"A truce," Aoko agreed. Through the yellow-tinted glass, Kaito and Shinichi were still sitting at their table, talking fast in low, excited voices. She wondered if Kudo had been working as much during the last few days as Kaito had. He certainly looked like he lacked a few hours' good sleep, too.

"My dear girl," Ran dropped nonchalantly, "if you go on staring at your husband that way, I will start to believe you're in love with him."

Aoko jumped, looked at her in horror, and started to splutter.

"You know," Ran said amusedly, "it is not so uncommon. Only in talkies do all husbands love their mistresses and loathe their wives – and vice-versa. I don't see why you shouldn't be able to like, or love your groom simply because the two of you are already married."

"Our marriage was set-up," Aoko reminded her.

Ran shrugged. "That's no difficulty, either. It may be unromantic, but if you really love him, why should the fact that you were wed beforehand be stopping you? –this as a common generality, of course," she added cautiously.

Aoko emerged from that discussion confused and unsettled.

The next morning, she went to see Kaito in his bureau and asked him if there was anything she could do. Her husband emerged from his ocean of paperwork and files with a nonplussed look. "What do you mean?"

"Well – I need to work," she explained, squirming uncomfortably. She still remembered what Hakuba had said about 'those dreadful modern girls, with blue stockings and ideas about sending women to Oxford.' "I'm getting bored here with nothing to do."

He frowned. "Why don't you work on that Litt. thesis of yours?"

"… what thesis?"

He frowned some more. "Why – I assumed – your father told me you'd begun a Litt. thesis while at Oxford. It's not finished, is it? there's a pretty good library down the corner – it's not the Bodleian, of course, but you should be able to find as much information as you need for the time being. And if you don't, we can always run up to Oxford and spend a few days there–"

Aoko was gaping at him. "Did I say something strange?"

Presently she recovered herself. "No. It's perfect. Thank you," she said, for what, she didn't know, and retreated before he could ask himself.

She went, consequently, back to her own old flat, to recover the first draft of her thesis which she hadn't thought of taking with her (not even to spite Kaito, who obviously didn't care a damn anyway), and had to suffer half an hour's monologue from her landlady, who'd 'read _all_ about the young lady's affairs in the newspapers and was really charmed she could have found such a lovely and caring husband. Well, not that herself had anything to say, her own poor man, who'd been dead three years this July, having been _quite_ considerate with her in their youth–'

Aoko fled, really hoping she would never be found talking that way about Kaito, not even in her old, ga-ga-ing age.

Like Kaito had said, the library down the corner was very fine (he must have come there many times himself, and even indicated her a few books which might interest her the first time they went there together) and most afternoons of hers were devoted there. The librarian, though surprised to have a woman so regular a visitor, was very helpful once he had been explained the situation, and allowed her to take home a few documents which she wished to peruse more attentively. If this went on she'd be working about as hard as Kaito already was, she thought wryly.

It wasn't enough, however. She was living entirely at Kaito's expense, and although he probably could perfectly afford it and more, she did not want to be thankless – and consequently shocked Jii-chan half to death when he surprised her one morning making a battlefield of the kitchen and a flour-covered statue of herself.

"My lady!" he cried out, making a wild grab for the falling eggs before that resulted in _another_ disaster. "My lady, please don't bother – if you want a particular recipe for tonight, you might just ask me, I am entirely at your convenience…"

"Oh, don't be a killjoy, Jii-chan," Aoko said happily, wiping her forehead and smearing it with more flour. "I'm enjoying myself here. Ran-chan gave me a recipe of lemon pie I want to try out… but you can help me if you want," she added benevolently.

"My lady – it is quite irregular…"

"Well, I don't mind. Let's be frivolous and cook ourselves. Give me that milk jug."

Kaito came home to find his enthusiastic wife making a flour path between the kitchen and the dining-room. He paused. "What's going on here?"

"Ah, Kaito!" Aoko exclaimed, pushing strands of hair falling in her eyes out of the way and looking delighted to see him. "We're making a lemon pie – what fun! Old jii-chan is completely out of his wits, I must say. The kitchen is a no man's land. You must come and see."

"What did you do that Jii-chan let you throw decorum to the winds?" Kaito asked, obligingly letting himself be carried away. "Did you murder him? There's no way he would let 'her ladyship' transform herself into a kitchen maid unless something drastic happened."

"Oh, I bullied him. I'm quite good at bullying people."

"Not everyone can bully Jii-chan," Kaito remarked as they reached the kitchen door and he noticed his manservant standing in the middle, swathed in flour and looking round in polite despair. "Hullo, Jii-chan! looks like you've let Aoko have her matter out with herself, haven't you?"

If there was something to say for Jii-chan it was that he never was at a loss for words. "Young master," he said, turning back to an amused-looking Kaito while an eager-looking Aoko started back on her pie, "you have married a young woman like no other."

"Oh, I know," Kaito said, watching Aoko tie up her hair.

Jii-chan, despite his protests, was forced to sit down at the table with them that night, and the lemon pie was delicious.

--

The end of those two weeks of relative peace saw the start of another quarrel. Later on, Aoko would insist it was all her father's fault, and he certainly could have made his second telegram a little longer than the first.

' Delighted. Keep on. N.G.'

"Three word and initials!" Aoko fumed as she paced restlessly the drawing before her husband. "He couldn't even put in 'best regards' or something – it wouldn't have cost him two pennies more!"

"If he says he's delighted there's nothing more to add," Kaito remarked, laying the cable aside.

Aoko rounded back on him, furiously. "Oh, of course, _you_ agree with him! _I_ didn't explain anything about our situation when I wired back to his first telegram, but I'll bet _you_ took all the pains possible to invent a pretty-looking story for your mother!"

"Just like you did for that friend of yours," Kaito replied coolly. "Besides, it was necessary to come up with a plausible, credible story, instead of nonsense about honeymoon in France and whatnot. We need to pretend, not–"

"Oh, and so what did you tell her? That we adore each other and sleep together every other night?"

"Aoko!"

"What could you tell her if it wasn't that? And I suppose she told it, with more details of her own invention, to my father – who was so _delighted_ about the _thrilling_ news that he even forgot to remind me that he was my father and still had two pence of love for his own daughter!"

"Oh, so it's my fault, then?" Kaito snapped, standing up so they were facing each other. "It's my fault if you don't get on with your father?"

"Whose else would it be?" Aoko snapped back, not very truthfully, but she was too mad to care. "If _you_ and your mother hadn't been there my father would _never_ have thought of this crazy design of an arranged married – as a matter of fact, I believe it's the two of you who put the idea in his head in the first place! And then he sold me over for the sake of the Kuroba's name!"

"That's what you think, then?" he shouted. "You think I married you because of the Kuroba's name–" but she was shouting louder than he and muffled the second sentence.

"I damned well do! You think _I_ wanted to be wed to and living with a smug, educated aristocrat–"

"Your relationship with your father has nothing to do with me, Aoko! If I'm not mistaken, you've been that way for years – he's been ignoring you and preferring his work better than you, and you've been taking it all in, and now you're putting the blame on me!"

"That's right," Aoko snarled. "It's _all_ my fault." Her lips were trembling, and she tried to pass him by, but his arm blocked her. "_It's all my fault!"_ she cried, and there was a hysterical, on-the-verge-of-tears dimension in her voice which made him shiver. "_Now will you leave me alone and LET ME PASS!"_

His arm fell to his side and she ran over to the door, biting her lips not to cry. She wanted to hit him, beat him, make him cry out in pain – and she knew the exact thing, the exact words which would get straight past his carapace to his heart – and break hers as it went.

"At least I still have a father," she dropped over her shoulder before slamming the door shut.

"_Aoko–!"_

She ran up the stairs and locked herself up in her room, heard beating erratically, but he didn't come after her.

Later that evening, as Aoko, coiled on the windowseat in her white nightgown, stared outside in the street, the clock in her bedroom tick-tocked its way steadily on to twelve. The strokes echoed gloomily in the silent emptiness, and Aoko started, turning her eyes on it in startled fright… she felt the tears run again, down her cheeks and into her mouth, past her lips their salty, bitter taste on her tongue.

It was the 25th of June.

--

Aoko kept her room all day.

Jii-chan tried to cheer her up as he brought her a late breakfast and lunch, but she shook her head. "It was a mistake from the start, Jii-chan. I should never have even accepted the idea of this marriage… I should never have come to live here at all. We will hate each other to bits."

Only when he was about to leave she dared ask after Kaito.

"He's kept locked up in his bureau all morning, my lady," Jii-chan replied, with a weary smile. "He didn't sleep in his bedroom last night."

She knew he hadn't. She would have heard him; she'd been listening for the sounds of his footsteps. None had came, and hope had withered away just as easily as it had formed. It was laughable, really, the way she was completely dependant… the way it was all so likely to deflate when they were less wary of it.

Laughable… laughable…

Jii-chan left, leaving her to the sole company of bacon omelette and her own, whacked thoughts.

Lazily, she thought about Keiko, and all those journalists who'd been making hot headlines of their marriage. They'd be delighted, after two weeks of repeating the same old news everybody knew and steadily passing on to something else, to hear about their divorce a few weeks' hence. There would be the talking neighbours and well-meaning great-aunts, who'd say they'd seen it coming all along, who'd say a lord's son couldn't possibly marry a common girl like the daughter of a police officer…

There would be those who'd laugh, and those who'd pity. She couldn't know which were worse. There'd be those who'd say they had known all along they couldn't be happy… and little would they know, as of yet, of the actual truth, the one which was kept secret by their parents' signature on a paper.

Not theirs. Never theirs. They were kindly pushed to the side and supposed to accept anything that came their way with deliberate submission that bordered on insult. Her father would be furious when he'd hear of their divorce.

Let him. It would do him good for him not to have what he wanted.

She shivered, and hugged herself a little tighter. It was so cold.

--

At eleven the following night, she rose from a cold bed with the silly hope that maybe Jii-chan wouldn't be finished with this day's chores yet and maybe – maybe – would extend kindness to making her a cup of tea or some hot milk.

She crossed the corridor and came down the stairs in the cold, dreary blues falling in by the window, but when she reached the inner hall there was a faint light coming out from Kaito's bureau – a slit of thin gold onto the dark tiles of the floor. The door was opened just a crack, however, so it wasn't Kaito, who always locked himself up, but Jii-chan, probably putting out the lamps or–

It wasn't. She had hardly pushed the door a little more ajar that her eyes fell on Kaito, sitting by the dim glow of the fireplace with a book in his hands. He was concentrated in his reading, and for a second Aoko was caught breathless. She stepped backwards, hoping she would get away unnoticed.

No such luck. The hinges creaked, and Kaito immediately looked up.

There was a pause.

"Aoko," he said, finally. She saw the long, fine hands lower slowly to lay the book on his lap. "What – what are you doing here? Why aren't you in bed?"

Aoko looked away. "I – I couldn't sleep," she said, and cursed her stammering voice. "I couldn't sleep and I wanted – I wondered if maybe Jii-chan was still awake and could heat me some milk. I thought–"

"I can do that," Kaito said, and rose. "No need to wake poor old Jii-chan. He's had a hard day already." He laid his book aside and brushed past her, murmuring as he went: "Sit down. I'll be right back."

He left, and Aoko saw his figure outline itself in the blues of the halls on to the kitchen door.

There was no light on in the bureau, except the faint hum of the fire in the hearth, which crackled and fizzled and cast a wavering glow on the walls. Aoko stepped in, looking round. Kaito's desk, covered up entirely with piles of papers and files. The long bookcase, wood dark-brown and extending on the wall. The two armchairs by the fireplace. The chimneypiece, a clean marble, supporting some china and a nice collection of photographs.

A face smiled at her which she already knew. Kaito's mother, several years younger, laughing at whoever was taking the picture. Kaito himself (was he seven or eight?) running after an escaped ball. Toichi-san – there were several of those – alone in full evening dress, on the church's steps with his bride, with baby-Kaito on his arm, with ten-years-old Kaito in some park and both of them grinning at each other.

She smiled and took the picture down, brushing her thumb on the glass.

"That's my father," Kaito said behind her, making her very nearly drop the frame. She caught it back and turned to him, open-mouthed, but he was just smiling softly, gazing at the picture. "It was just a few weeks before he died…" he whispered, laid the plate he was carrying on the coffee table, and straightened again to take it from her. "Tousan was…"

"I'm sorry," Aoko blurted out. Kaito started, and put the picture back on the chimneypiece.

"Err – come again?"

"For yesterday." She knew she must be looking foolish, looking intensely at him with her hands fisted in her nightgown, but she didn't care. She didn't care for _anything_. "I'm sorry. It was stupid. It was selfish. It was – I'm so sorry…"

He ran his hand in his hair, looking down sheepishly. "It's – okay, I guess. I've said inexcusable things too." He sat down, and for the first time she noticed how _tired_ he looked. There were dark rings under his eyes and he rubbed them wearily. "We… we never do things like other people, I guess…" but there was a smile in his voice and Aoko felt lighter. She sat opposite him, bringing her knees up to her chest.

"Bloody idiots, uh?"

"We can't be anything else," he retorted, with a soft grin. "Have some milk."

He had brought her milk, all right. Along with some cacao, sugar and honey-flavoured biscuits. In silverware.

Aoko wanted to laugh. "You must be the only aristocrat who not only makes his own midnight snack buts arranges them in his mother's silverware," she remarked, dipping the tip of a biscuit in her teacup. "Jii-chan must be ashamed of you."

"Oh, he is," Kaito was sipping tea exactly like any other English gentleman. It made her want to smile, and smile she did. "He's in despair of ever bringing me up to the rules. Says I'm way too much like my father in some ways. Looks like Tousan liked to run around in his shirtsleeves and come out in the streets without his hat… _shocking_," he added, in a perfect imitation of Hakuba's snobbish voice. Aoko chuckled.

You _are_ like him, she thought, gazing at him. In many ways – probably more than you even think. "He was a good man," she said abruptly.

She immediately regretted it. She thought she might have given the game away, but Kaito gave her a curious smile and nodded. "Yes, he was. Very much so."

"He did magic, too." She couldn't help herself, really – it just came out of her mouth. "I mean – I read about it – Keiko," she lied, by way of an explanation. "What I mean is… he was well known for his imitation skills and magic tricks…"

"Shocking," Kaito said again. "In the eyes of all good society, he was The Man Who Must Not Be Talked About. Which is probably why he liked it so much… if only to spite them. Those magic tricks of his are probably a dearer heritage of him than his name or his wealth or his title–" he trailed off, remembering.

"Did he teach them to you?" Aoko helped herself to some cacao.

"H'm. A few. Some others weren't altogether perfect when he – when he died, so I finished the job–"

Aoko put her teacup down. "Show me!" she pleaded, hugging her knees like a little child. She felt about as excited as years before, under the clock tower– "Please? Pretty pretty please?" she was quite good at looking like a yearning kitten.

"Aoko – oh, all right." He grinned suddenly, and it was Touichi-san's grin, the one he had before he was going to pull a coin out of her ear or a rose out of her hair or something equally technically impossible. "So what do you want me to do?"

A dove erupted out of nowhere and alighted nimbly on his shoulder.

… it seemed that Kaito was, really and truly, his father's son.

Looking at him right now, surrounded by doves and confetti and flags, he looked just like Touichi-san had, long ago, in the dusk upon the clock tower. And yet there was something else, too, something Kaito-ish, something she couldn't quite place. In the way he moved his hands, in the way his birds seemed to coo down at him (no, Touichi-san's doves had loved him as well – were they the same, by the way? She doubted it, but how long lived a dove…) in the way, maybe, he laughed like a happy child, while Touichi had smiled calmly, as though all this was simple and easy, but Kaito – Kaito didn't even appear to be thinking at all. He was just _doing_ it.

And obviously he was enjoying it.

And suddenly Touichi-san was there, again, beaming down calmly at her and whispering, '_You'll like Kaito, Aoko-chan. You are alike, the two of you.'_

"Aoko?"

She looked up. He was leaning down to her, worry written all over his face and one hand struggling with some juggling balls and flags and stuff while the other had just been squeezing hers gently. "Are you alright? You looked strange…"

"I'm fine," Aoko assured him. She eyed his hand occupied by all the trumpets. "Can I–" she hesitated– "can I try to juggle?"

He didn't look surprised, didn't ask anything, but handed the juggling balls over. "Sure." He turned away to drop all the rest of his stuff on an empty armchair, and came back to her. She had stood, and was staring at her hands grimly.

"It's a while since I ever practised," she explained, lifting her eyes at him. "I dunno if…"

"Try on." He passed behind her, to lay the plate on his desk – out of harm's way, Aoko registered numbly. "It's like riding a horse. Or a bicycle. If you did it once you never quite forget. Go on," he urged, still in her back.

Like she had thought, the first moments were disastrous. After some fumbling tries, however, she thought she'd got the knack again, and a few minutes' practising were enough, after that, to bring it round quite nicely. The balls were flying and tumbling in elegant leaps, her hands hardly shifting at all to catch them. She smiled, when she got more confident; she had almost forgotten the delight and satisfaction it brought when she managed to do it all right.

"See?" Kaito said, at her shoulder, and she nearly lost it. Recovering, she hissed,

"Don't _do_ that!"

He laughed. "Fine. Ah – careful–" she'd dropped one of the balls, and he caught it easily. "Calm down. Breathe – there, it's alright. Better. If you move your left wrist an inch to the side you will find it easier to catch… here!"

He'd covered both her hands with her own, his chest pressing against her back, and she was immediately scarlet, immensely grateful that he was behind her and could not see her face while juggling with her. His movements were swift and calculated, each motion reaching up and progressing down to catch each ball with perfect precision.

He had long, fine hands, fingers which carelessly interweaved with hers, and his mouth was almost muffled in her hair. She needed to breathe.

"It was great," Kaito said, when the movements finally slowed down and the balls were all in their hands. He was still behind her, and his voice vibrated only inches away from her ear. It did nothing to help. "You're good at it."

"I had a good teacher," Aoko said, and paused. "A while back."

Kaito was silent. He let go of her right hand, so she could turn to him, but kept the left one in his, thoughtfully. His eyes were serious onto her, and blue, blue like they never had been – it was maybe just the effect of the faint light reflecting, but she was certain he had never looked at her that peculiar way. "Aoko…"

She waited.

"We should go and get some sleep," he said eventually.

"Oh!" That was not what she had expected. "Yes, I suppose you're right." She handed him the balls, but he shook his head and pushed them back.

"I've got others. And you need to practise. Come on." He started towards the door, still holding her hand, and she could do nothing but follow. The silverware and fire in the hearth were left as they were, for Jii-chan to find in the morning. _Poor Jii-chan_, she thought as she climbed the stairs behind Kaito. With the two of them snapping off at each other and struggling constantly with each other, he certainly had much to do.

Kaito's hand was warm against hers.

At her bedroom door they stopped. She figured Kaito would bid her goodnight and pick his way on to his own room in the dark corridor, but he didn't. He squeezed her fingers, kept them in his one thoughtful moment, then let go.

"My book," he said. "I left it downstairs. Go to sleep," he told her. "You look like you could sleep on till doomsday."

She cracked a smile and watched him nod his head, then turn towards the stairs. "Kaito?" He stopped and looked back at her, and kami, she was stupid. They were passing the first instances of divorce in two weeks. They were supposed to hate each other's guts, not hold hands and teach juggling. "Happy birthday," she said lamely. "I'm sorry."

"Love is a devilish fool." He shook his head. "Goodnight."

--

The week between his birthday and hers elapsed at an alarmingly fast pace.

Jii-chan made no comment when they resumed being comparatively civil and amicable towards each other on the 26th. He merely gave Aoko one of his wrinkled smiles which made him look much younger, and lunch that day was one of the best they had shared together.

There weren't many changes, though. Kaito kept more locked up in his bureau than ever, and Aoko was rarely ever at home, her thesis and the library and two invitations to tea from Ran keeping her nicely busy. They met during meals, and went to a show one evening – more for gusto than for the pleasure of going, however. Her father had arrived one morning to ask them to show themselves more. People were starting to whisper, he said. Aoko didn't care a damn.

One evening, the day before her birthday when she should legally come of age, she came downstairs – maybe for the same reasons, maybe not – to find light filtrating again under Kaito's door.

Working up late again, Aoko thought deprecatingly, and pushed the door open a crack wider.

There was no light in the hearth this time. The light came from a gas lamp flickering on Kaito's paperwork-covered desk, and for a moment, she thought he was just bent over his folders and files. After a minute, however, she saw he was asleep.

He had his head pillowed in his arms, breathing softly among toppling piles of papers and what looked like invoices. He must have been mulling over them all evening, she thought, extracting a pen from under her hand. The faint light flickered on his face, picking lines and shadowing the trembling eyelashes and the long, relaxed mouth.

She reached out to bring the light down. He was probably cold, even in summer, and she draped her long fitting shawl around him, fingers just lingering on his shoulders and making sure it didn't loosen off. Locks of black hair were dropping on his eyes and nose.

He stirred. She shrank away, but he merely sighed deeply and tightened his arms a little.

"Aoko…"

All in all, it was much better he was asleep.

--

Aoko woke up on her birthday morning with thoughts of lemon pies dancing around in her head. She dressed up all along like a good girl, and was met by Jii-chan in mid-staircase, just as she was coming down on her way to the kitchen.

"Hullo!"

"Good morning, my lady. The young master asked me to give you this."

It was her shawl. She recovered it, frowning. "Couldn't he give it to me himself?"

"The young master left early this morning, my lady." He started to walk downstairs with her. "He told me to wish you a happy birthday, and to say he's sorry, he was called away on an emergency relating to his work. There is a present for you in his bureau. Will you care for any breakfast, my lady?"

"Sure," said Aoko, absently. He'd left. An emergency relating to his work… a present for her… she wasn't certain whether she should feel pleased or offended. And he slept so little there days…

The bureau was still a mess, but it seemed that the piles and piles from paperdom on the desk had melted partly down. A gift-wrapped package had been left by the gas lamp; with it no note, no indication, only a dark-red ribbon and a rose.

A present, she thought, carrying it up to her room. It spoke of a certain degree of intimacy which she wasn't sure they had reached, or hadn't already walked right by. And there was something else, something which she didn't seem to be able to quite grasp at–

After a moment's reflection she tore it up.

It was a book – one of the books she had been rummaging around to find in different libraries, which neither of them had a copy of. She wondered, vaguely brushing her hand against the cover – How had he known he wanted it? Where had he found it anyway?

You're interested, Kaito, aren't you? she thought, and then sat down to work.

The day passed on quiet, mostly in writing and moping and a call from a fairly exasperated Ran, who said Shinichi had been gone_ hours_ and hadn't even left a note to say where he was going or when he was coming back.

"Kaito's disappeared, too," Aoko told her. "He left this morning in the early hours."

"I _knew_ it," Ran muttered. "It had to be something between the two of them – Shinichi was working so hard recently, and when there's something fishy Kuroba is necessarily implied, too. When will they learn that we're not the kind of wives to wait for them behind without a word and a worry in the world?" she burst out, and hung up before Aoko could say anything more.

I'm not Kaito's wife, she thought, putting the receiver down. Not strictly. Not to his eyes – nor to mine. She eyed angrily the long pages of writing she had reeled off in the afternoon; she was suddenly taken by an immensurable hatred for them. Worried wife be blown.

"Damn it," she muttered, between her teeth, looking around from something to break, and the door opened just in time to avoid the massacre by decapitation of a vase of flowers at the window.

"Well, Jii-chan, what is it," she called irritatingly, turning to face him – and she instantly knew something was very, very wrong. The old man's face was a blank, blanker than any butler's could or should be, and his eyes were dull and expressionless as his voice formed over the words.

"I think you should listen to the wireless _now_, my lady."

He stole away before Aoko had time to question him.

There was a wireless set in the other room, the one adjacent to her room and to Kaito's, and another downstairs, which Jii-chan had probably been listening to while – cooking dinner, or dusting the windows… Aoko moved quick to flick the switch on.

'… _crfkcfkr… repeat,'_ a man's nondescript voice crackled. '_We as of yet have no further news from inside the trial court where the accused have taken hostages the whole court and the assembly. We are, however, assured that they had accomplices among the crowd, who overcame the forces of police before passing their stipulations to the outside of the building, where we have sent reporters at this hour, and regiments of police have been sent to intervene if necessary, but it seems that the aggressors are armed and threaten to, err… bump off one hostage an hour if they are not listened to…. crkfkckrkf… we remind our listeners that the great surprise of this trial was to find in the prosecution box not only Kudo Shinichi but Kuroba Kaito, son of the famous and deceased Kuroba Touichi. Nakamori Ginzo, Prefect of Police…–"_

The phone rang.

Aoko leapt to it before Jii-chan could pick it up downstairs and pressed the receiver to her ear. "Hello!"

"Aoko-chan, is that you?"

"Ran-chan," Aoko breathed out, now experiencing the very curious sensation of feeling intensely relieved and intensely distressed all at once. Then again, who had she been expecting? Kaito's mother? "Yes, it's me."

"Have you heard?"

"Yes."

"I've run through Shinichi's things," her friend said, sounding less panicked than Aoko felt – possibly she was used to this kind of thing, her husband having a reputation as a detective. How _could_ she have forgotten that? How _could_ she have overlooked the fact that Kaito was his best friend? "It seems that they have been studying for this trial for a long time now – maybe months."

"What case is it? what trial?" Aoko asked, her mouth dry.

"The Stanford case – I think you know what that is."

Ran didn't add anything by way of an explanation, and she needn't anyway. Aoko knew all about the Stanford case. Her father had worked on it for years – had been on the trail of this organisation which passed drugs from one frontier to another under the eyes of the police for years. Six months before, he had managed a spectacular arrest of two of the three head-chiefs, exploit which had brought on his immediate promotion. She had heard somewhere that Kudo Shinichi had helped him out… and probably Kaito had, too.

"I'm going to _kill_ him when he comes back," Ran was hissing on the other end of the line. "It's not the first time he's doing that sort of things, but that's really going too far – Aoko, are you still there? Aoko?"

"Yes," Aoko said slowly. "Ran-chan, can we do anything?"

"We can do nothing."

After Ran had hung up she sat in silence for long minutes, trying to piece it all together. Presumably Shinichi and Kaito had been helping her father out with the case and as such were main witnesses for the prosecution (so that was what Kaito had been working on so earnestly, preparing for the trial…). So now they were in that trial court, along with her father – the speaker on the radio had told his name, but she had assumed he'd just been making official declarations.

Instead, the three of them were taken as hostages in a shut-up trial court, at the mercy of dangerous criminals, who were all the more likely to take it out on them who'd thrown them in jail in the first place.

Kami…

_(I'm going to _kill_ him when he comes back,_ Ran had said. But what if they didn't?)

After a few minutes she went downstairs to speak to Jii-chan.

He was in the kitchen, making dinner, his face back to usual. The eyes he lifted to her were, if anything, looking more distressed than anything. Weren't butlers supposed to be impassive? Aoko thought irrelevantly – but Jii-chan wasn't a butler, he was an old friend of the family, and probably one of the persons on earth who knew Kaito best.

"I don't think Kaito will come home to dinner tonight," she said slowly. Jii-chan nodded bleakly, and she was struck by the helplessness of the situation. They could do nothing. _They could do nothing. _Only sit and wait. "Has this kind of thing happened often?"

"Not very often, my lady," the elder man shook his head. "It's – the young master has started helping Kudo Shinichi-san for more than a year now, but no situation has been so grave up to today. Nor so–" he cut off, but Aoko could finish the sentence alone. _Nor so hopeless._

"Very well, then," she said. "I think… I think you should make an omelette and bacon for when he comes back, and light a fire in the drawing-room."

Their eyes met in perfect understanding.

--

It was a dreary night. Aoko sat by the wireless, coiled on the windowseat and in a blanket, listening to the reports of the situation which came in from time to time, interrupting the broadcasting. None of them brought any useful information.

'… _the aggressors have now passed their reclamations to the police. They want total immunity when they come out, and forty-four hours to get out of the country before they are searched for again…'_

'… _a messenger they have sent to the outside has said that one hostage has already been shot down… it would be one of the two lawyers for the defence…'_

'_The presence of Nakamori Ginzo inside the trial court has so far prevented the taking of any important decision…'_

It was sickening.

Kaito had been working on this case for her father all along, she thought. He'd passed days and nights in his bureau, chewing over tons and tons of paperwork and testimonies to make sure he was ready for the trial. He had helped him out in the first place – how, she didn't know, but he had – and then he'd spent all his free time gathering data so the Prefect of Police was not caught empty-handed when it came to witnessing in the prosecution box.

And all that time she'd acted like a spoilt child, throwing tantrums and snapping at him, telling him he was no good for anyone, telling him he only wanted their fortune allied to his own name, telling him he didn't care at all for her and her family. Telling him her father had sold her to him, telling him she hated him, telling him…

Kaito had exhausted himself working for her father, for her father's name. He had looked so tired, sleeping in his bureau. And her father hadn't thanked him at all, when he'd come to visit them. And she'd been horrible with him all along. And all that time… all that time…

Kaito…

'… _we do not, at present, know the exact outcome of the situation inside the court. Further bulletins will be broadcast.'_

The clock read ten-thirty. Downstairs, she heard Jii-chan moving about, replacing restless chairs and building useless fires, putting back books, shutting windows. The way he did every night… but the scheme had something intensely sinister to-day, as though it might be the last time he ever did it.

She had to stop thinking that way.

The closing of a door downstairs, and silence. The clock read eleven.

'… _local bobbies now gathering by the court, ready to intervene manu militari in case anything happens. Officials have not yet given their explanation of the situation, nor the possible decision that will, eventually, have to be taken. Further bulletins…'_

If Kaito didn't come back (and she couldn't help thinking that way, not with the situation between them taking such a turn) if Kaito didn't come back, she would be left a very young, very wealthy widow, prey to all the Hakubas of the world.

But what did it matter? She wasn't Kaito's wife, was she? She had never been. It was a marriage in name only. They didn't love each other. Their parents had set it all up…

Still, it hurt.

Damn it. It hurt like hell.

With a jolt, she realized it was her birthday.

'… _another messenger sent by the aggressors saying another hostage has been shot down, and the rhythm will only increase if their reclamations are not accepted immediately. Officials in charge have not yet declared anything in suite of…'_

The hours passed on. Eleven-thirty. Midnight.

The best Hour for a crime, Aoko smiled grimly. She turned her look to the window. Outside, the lights of London spread indefinitely – or so it seemed. There was a strong concentration of yellowed blurs in one corner – kami, it felt so close… so close she could have flied to the roof and gotten inside the building, making sure Kaito was alright, really alright…

Fifteen minutes to one. One-twenty.

'_Further bulletins will be broadcast.'_

How could it be so cold?

'_Further bulletins will be broadcast.'_

You should have known I'm not the kind of woman who stays behind and waits for her beloved husband, Kaito, Aoko thought desperately. And there was a strange _twinge_ in her gut, as though something was not quite right. As though she should be knowing something.

'_Further bulletins will be broadcast.'_

It was twenty minutes to two.

'_We remind you that Kudo Shinichi, the well-known detective, Kuroba Kaito, son of the late Kuroba Touichi, and Nakamori Ginzo, prefect of police, are all three among the hostages. Also Mouri Eri, the famous lawyer, and step-mother of Kudo Shinichi… crflrfclflr. We, as of yet, have no idea who is alive and who is dead.'_

_Twinge._

Aoko sat still, the folds of her blanket falling loosely around her.

After a while she started to cry.

--

When she woke up the wireless was crackling grimly, and the sky outside was a pale white. The sun had not yet risen, and the horizon just above the rooftops was a very faint, hesitant sort of gold, blurred by the mist coming up from the Thames. It was the crack of dawn, and it was very cold.

On the other side of the floor, Kaito's doves were making such a ram she could hear them all the way to here.

_Twinge._

Kaito, she thought. Kaito is gone. She looked at the wireless set, but it was only making fizzling, non-descript sounds. If any important news had been broadcast, she had certainly missed them. It made her sick even to think of it… And Jii-chan must still be asleep.

_Twinge._

Images came pouring in.

The way he'd looked at first glance, looking so much like his father and yet so much not, so alike and so distinct because he was an entirely different being – the hair, the eyes, the look, the cool smile, the hands in the pockets which he had taken out to shake hers–

The same Kaito, in the car, saying, '_You can call me by my first name now, since we are husband and wife.'_

Herself, insisting, '_No claiming your conjugal rights either,' _and the long, hard look he'd given her then, and the way she'd been so furious after that, the way she'd wanted him to go and stick his head in a bucket of water–

The brisk rustle of wings in the wind the next morning, and his silhouette outlining against the sunshine–

His soft grin at Kudo telling him she'd mistaken them, and the genuine surprise in his eyes when he'd turned to her–

The wistful quantity of his gaze, when he'd come back from leaving a rose under the clock tower, and said it was something he owed to his father – something she didn't know about, but she could just guess–

The worry in his eyes when he'd seen her with Hakuba, and, later, the anger as he said, '_You're my wife, and I will not let you make me, or yourself, the laughingstock of the whole aristocracy'–_ and her own anger at this, the way she'd bitten her lips all the trip back home to avoid giving him the pleasure of seeing her cry, seeing her break–

Himself, saying the next morning, '_I guess we're both bloody idiots, then, aren't we?'_ and the smile he'd given her then, happy, just happy–

His laugh when he'd surprised her making a lemon pie and a mess of the kitchen, and his firm affection when he'd said, later on, '_Jii-chan, if you do not sit down immediately and dine with us, I will throttle you myself. Good god, man, do you realize what would become of us if you died from exhaustion?'_

The faint gleam of the juggling balls running in their hands in the dim glow of the fireplace, and the two doves on his shoulders when he'd turned back in the staircase and had grinned at her, looking, in so many ways, so much like his father and yet so much not–

His soft breathing – not so long ago, it felt a lifetime away – in his bureau, slumped, asleep, on his desk, and the faint whisper of her name leaving her lips–

Her own staying up all night, hoping to catch bribes of information on the wireless, hoping he'd be fine, just fine–

Aoko sat very still, the greys just clearing, just enough.

And Ran, in the restaurant with yellow-tinted windows, looking at her looking at Kaito, the thin, swirling smoke of her cigarette half-shrouding her nonchalant smile as she said– '_My dear girl, if you go on staring at your husband that way, I will start to believe you're in love with him.'_

"… oh, damn," she said, very softly.

And the light dawned before her eyes.

--

Most of the day passed without any alteration of any kind. '_We can guess something is happening in here right now,' _the speaker said in a chilly voice, '_but, at present, only conjectures can be formed… crklrcrlfk… authorities having yet to take a decision, to the great appeal of all London's population.'_

Aoko kept her room all day.

Jii-chan came up to bring her meals, but they talked very little. Aoko thanked him with a nod of the head, and he addressed her a few words of comfort – had he known, too? Had everyone known except her? Had Kaito?

Well, of course he had. _'Love is a devilish fool,'_ he'd said – that evening in the staircase – and kami, he'd been right. He probably had known a long time beforehand.

Where to, now?

Downstairs, she could hear Jii-chan move slowly, restlessly, uselessly – what was he, without Kaito? Was he to see both the father and the son die before his eyes?

(And what would _she_ do, if Kaito died? Returning to her old life seemed impossible, but she didn't quite care to stay here all alone in the great rooms still tainted with Kaito's presence… Oxford… her father, what would he say? her father?… if he even got out of it himself… and Kudo… and Mouri Eri… she must be Ran's mother… kami, Ran must be in a worst state than herself…)

The 'phone rang all day. Jii-chan went to answer it downstairs, and after three times of seeing him come up to give her the caller's message, Aoko uncoiled herself from the windowseat and dressed numbly. People out there seemed to be pretty concerned about her, and their words were full of disgusting sympathy – she must be strong, she must overcome the pain, she must be worthy of Kaito's memory (almost as though he was already dead, as though he was already gone, as though she had already lost him) and she nodded and accepted them, and looked away.

The only 'phone call to which she answered came from Kaito's mother.

'I know,' said she, 'that the arrangement between our family and yours hasn't been very much to your liking at the beginning. But Kaito–' her voice faltered at the name of her son, '–Kaito told me that you had become friends, at least. I do not know what I should hope now, that you should love him or not…'

"Do not hope on my love or his," Aoko replied, shortly enough. "Just hope he gets out of it alive and well. That is all I dare hope for myself – my feelings, or his, must come second-best."

'… You are strong.' She sighed. 'I am sorry, Aoko, I was not able to know you before your father and me arranged this marriage. I only wish that Kaito and you… that maybe things might – things might have been different.'

Meaningless words.

Apart from this alteration, the day was unbroken till after dinnertime. It was only then that the front door opened, and she heard hushed voices in the hall, one old and one young, and then the staircase running past her steps, as she charged onto the white-and-black tiles.

She was expecting a black mop of hair and blue eyes tired. She met instead with a blond, sage head and a gold gaze which rested on her with amusement.

"… Hakuba-san," she said breathlessly. "I… my husband is not at home." For the first time the word rolled on her tongue easily, just as it started to slip away from her grasp. It was ironical, really.

"I know," he said, and then seemed to be waiting for something.

"Ahem… you should pass into the drawing-room, my lady," Jii-chan suggested, and Aoko gave him a relieved smile. Yes, the drawing-room would do fine. It was impersonal enough to welcome a visitor, but there were proofs enough of Kaito's presence to–

"Do sit down," she said, giving the example, but Hakuba preferred leaning on the chimneypiece and bestowing a smile unto her. The light was declining outside the windows in his back, and he was faintly shadowed.

"I heard of your husband's, err… difficult position as of late," he said delicately. (Difficult was putting it mildly.) "However, we must find it is all for the best." He paused there, and was satisfied to see her change colour. "For weeks I have waited and struggled against the better of myself – for weeks I have restrained myself to come here while Kuroba could have interrupted us. But at last I can keep my word."

"Your word," Aoko said drily.

He knelt at her feet, and she felt the sudden urge to kick him. "I had told you I am not one to be discouraged so easily. Aoko-san…"

He definitely deserved kicking. This would have done for Keiko, not for her. He was babbling away. "Aoko-san, I'm certain you have noticed my marked passion for you… if words were enough to tell you of my feelings, I would certainly speak further. As, however, it is not so – and your husband not being here to constrain me from speaking…"

Wonderful. He'd heard about Kaito being gone – or dead – and he'd come right away to propose to her to–

(What, now? should she call for Jii-chan? maybe he was used to this kind of situation – maybe girls had come to Kaito in this very room, in the same hopes as her current suitor. And if they remained alone too long, there might be a misunderstanding – maybe Jii-chan would think – and what about Kaito?

It seemed almost too easy. But no – she had much rather fight her own battles alone.)

"Hakuba-san, are you fooling with me?" She rose, and was satisfied in seeing surprise plastered all over his face before he recovered. He was taller than herself, but she folded her hands, tilted up her chin and waited.

"Indeed I am not. I beg you, madam, to never doubt my affections for such a lovely object–"

In fact, kicking would be too soft. "Hakuba-san, that you were able to speak without interruption was only due to my extreme surprise," she said coolly – if he was going to be snobbish, then so would she. "You have made your object in coming here perfectly clear. Now I must ask you to leave my house immediately."

If he hadn't been surprised before, then so he was now. She saw the fine mouth twitch irrepressibly before he spoke again. "I thought – that is to say, your response to my addresses back when we first met left me no doubt of my feelings being returned–"

"I'm afraid you saw there nothing more than what you wanted to see."

The light was falling fast now, what little portion of the sky she saw out the window rapidly darkening to an ashes-to-ashes blue. A perfect shade for a perfect situation, Aoko thought ironically. She was coming back – down.

"I have no desire to be slighted by you," Hakuba snapped at her, all handsomeness on his face now lost and forgotten. "I suppose you have found some fool other than me – richer, perhaps – to cheat on your husband with–"

"I have no intention to be added to your lists of conquests," Aoko snapped back.

"You should not believe half of what is said about me," he replied with a strained smile.

"Even half is more than enough. Now that you have insulted in both possible ways, I must ask you to leave – now!" He turned away, but made no motion towards the door, and Aoko's eyes followed him while she bit her lips, wondering whether Jii-chan would be of any help. If she could only find a phrase that would unnerve him so much he'd leave without question…

"If I might be allowed to ask," Hakuba asked angrily, rounding back on her, "I would like to know why you accepted my attentions the first time we met, if it were to reject them so cold-heartedly on our second meeting–"

"And _I_ would like to know why you are courting my wife in my own house," Kaito said, from the doorway.

Aoko looked over at him, instantly breathless, but he did not look back. He was in his shirtsleeves, and his eyes were fixed coldly on Hakuba while he articulated the words distinctly, "I think you no longer have a business here, Hakuba. You can leave now. Jii-chan, show the gentleman out."

Hakuba looked at him, then back at Aoko, slapped his hat against his leg, and made his way out. He shouldered past Kaito as he passed him, and stomped away on Jii-chan's heels towards the exit. Kaito softly closed the drawing-room door behind them.

"Kaito…" Aoko launched forwards, then paused. He looked so _tired. _"Are you… are you alright?"

He dropped himself in the nearest armchair and rubbed his face with both hands, staring grimly at the cold hearth. "Just – exhausted, I guess." He gave her a smile only the faint ghost of the old, flippant grin. "And ravenous, which is unromantic but logical after thirty-six hours without swallowing anything. I suppose there's no luck Jii-chan could cook me an express dinner, by any chance?" he asked hopefully. "I could eat any kind of grub."

"Half a jiff," Aoko said, and ran out of the room. She was back almost immediately, with a plate of bacon-and-omelette and a large brandy on a tray. Kaito stared at her.

"Good lord, Aoko, where have you found this so rapidly? Have you been hiding food in your room?"

"Of course not," she huffed, chucking the tray at him. "I know you'd be hungry when you – came back, and yesterday night I told Jii-chan to keep some food warm for you overnight. He's been doing it again this morning and tonight, so it was all ready."

Kaito shook his head. "You're wonderful," he said.

While wolfing down the omelette he told her what had really happened inside the trial court. "They did shoot down the two lawyers for the defence," he said grimly, sipping brandy. "I don't know why – maybe it was the symbol of authority… it was to be Mouri-san's turn next – she's Ran's mother, you know. Luckily, we were able to intervene before they could touch her."

He sighed. "I don't know what was the worst, knowing we couldn't do anything till they got more self-confident, or the shouts and sobbing inside the room. It was tight, and there were at least a hundred people inside that place – the trial had excited much curiosity in the first place. We, as witness against them, were supposed to be got rid of sometime before they got away with it, and I think your father was their pet hostage. If anything went wrong they could always exchange his life against their liberty…"

"He _is_ all right, then?" Aoko asked worriedly.

"Yes, he's fine." Kaito finished the omelette and put his fork down. "Only Kudo was hurt – a little – on the arm, and that was all his fault. He wasn't careful enough when he attacked one of our men. Nearly gave the game away… I hope he gets a good beating when he comes home."

"Oh, he will," Aoko said, thinking about Ran and _When will they learn that we're not the kind of wives to wait for them behind?_ She would certainly let him know what he was about. Only now did the thought make her want to smile.

"Good." He bit into an apple. "Well, anyway, we took care of one criminal at a time – there were five of them, you know, two were tried and the other three were accomplices… well, now they'll all five be in jail," he added with satisfaction. "We fell on their backs nicely. I intended to go to the police station with Kudo, but your father told me I was to go back home. Said you must be worried and I should go and comfort you as soon as I can." He grinned again. "So home I came…" his voice trailed off.

Aoko could not help but start, "Hakuba-san–"

"Oh, I know what he came here for," Kaito said. He looked immensely tired again, as he relaxed against the back of his chair. "I was expecting it some time or other… but I hadn't thought he'd take advantage of that moment. I thought him more gentlemanlike. Still, it's obvious he hasn't got what he wanted," he smiled.

Aoko looked at him and said softly, "No. He didn't."

It was completely night by now. The room was all but shaded in blues and greys and blacks, so she could hardly make out Kaito's darker silhouette in the armchair, and Jii-chan hurried in to light the two lamps on the mantelpiece. The glow was warm and homely, and Kaito was silent.

"… Kaito," she said after a long moment of trying to piece her thoughts together. "There's nothing I never told you…"

He didn't speak, but shifted slightly to show he was listening. Aoko lowered her eyes, and hugged her knees a little tighter.

"I… I knew your father." No reaction. Aoko bit her lip and went on, "I was meeting him regularly between seven and ten-years-old. It was he who taught me to juggle… My father – my father was starting to work harder than he spent time with his family, so I was under the survey of a governess, but I still had a comparative freedom. So every Saturday, when I came out from my dance lessons, I crossed the square and met your father in the park in front of the clock tower."

She chuckled. "Of course, I was too young to realise that little girls do _not_ meet with older men all alone in a park. I loved your father very much. He was sort of a godfather for me… he gave me gifts for my birthday and taught me his magic tricks, how to feed his doves… we had a lot of fun, always. He was always laughing.

"When he had nothing to teach me, we usually talked. I told him about my father, and he spoke about his wife… and you, too." She smiled up at him, but he said nothing. It seemed to her he was breathing just a little faster. "He loved you, Kaito. He said you'd grow to be just like him… that we were alike, the two of us. You and me. I longed to meet you at last… and he'd told me he'd bring you next time we met…"

She hugged her knees tighter still. "But when I came to the clock tower that Saturday, he didn't come. I waited for him an hour and a half, until my governess, alarmed at my not coming home at the usual time, came and found me. And when I went back home, I found in my father's newspaper that Kuroba Touichi had been killed in a car accident the day before."

Kaito looked away. She glanced at him, but continued without interruption, in a very soft voice.

"I refused to leave my room after that, even when my father tried to come and console me. And I stopped taking dance lessons, and never juggled again… until that evening one week ago. With you." She smiled at her knees. "You're so like your father, Kaito. You have the same way to make me love magic as he did."

When he looked back, she saw he was smiling. "I know."

"Kaito…"

"I _know."_ He leant forwards on his elbows, grinning that happy, if tired, grin of his. "Aoko, did you honestly think that my _father_ never told me about his three-years-long meetings with little Aoko-chan with blue eyes and such a wide smile?"

Aoko was so surprised she straightened, letting her arms fall from around her knees. "That's why…" she gasped. "The rose…"

"H'm. I started doing that when I was fifteen. I'd seen you in the street… he'd brought me a picture of you by the way… and I thought that's what Tousan would have wanted to do. That he would have liked to think that one day, maybe, as a grown woman, you'd pass by the clock tower and find the rose and think about him." He smiled, remembering, and Aoko had no idea what to say.

"I… I must have changed from my picture when I was fifteen." … great. Of course she could find nothing more intelligent to say–

"It didn't matter." He grinned at her. "You were so pretty…"

Aoko flushed, and almost didn't hear his next words. "… he loved you, Aoko. Loved you very much. He always was tired and depressed at the end of the week, but he came home calm and reposed after meeting you, every time… I guess you were like the daughter he would have wanted – however clichéd that may seem – the sister he would have wanted for me."

Aoko nodded bleakly, trying to fight back tears.

"I can even recall–" he was laughing now– "I can recall he told me once that if I ever came by the fancy to fall in love, I could do no better than fall in love with you." He relaxed in his armchair, gazing thoughtfully at her. "… good ol' Tousan. Always right, even when he was joking."

_Love is a devilish fool_, Aoko thought, and found the salty taste of tears running in her mouth. She felt idiotic, sobbing against her knees, but Kaito was crouched before her before she had time to apologize, and took her hands gently, rubbing his thumb against her palm in a soothing motion.

"Good lord, Aoko, I didn't say it to make you cry… I'm such an ass… please don't cry… here, take this one, it's quite clean. Have you been taking it all in for all this time? We're still the same bloody idiots as ever… we can't do anything like normal people. But why cry against your own knees when you can employ my perfectly good shoulder for the same use?"

By that time he'd helped her to her feet and was cradling her against him, "That's better. My mouth in your hair and your breath in my neck… we're still fools, you know… I guess we're not quite out of the woods yet, eh, Livingstone-san?"

Aoko chuckled, irrepressibly. "… oh, it's not fair," she sniffed, rubbing her cheek against the fabric of his shirt. "Why can you always make me laugh? I can't resist you when you smile like that…" she couldn't finish; he kissed her immediately, and she was breathless.

For some reason, Keiko worked her way out in her mind then, Keiko and her usual clichés about passionate kisses and jelly knees and fireworks – for some reason, it wasn't at all like that with Kaito. It was awkward, and rather tentative at first, and there were no fireworks at all; all those cheap romances books hadn't said anything about the clumsiness of trying to find a respectable position for kissing and having a partner chuckling low against one's mouth.

But they hadn't said anything about the warmth either, nor the grounding sensation of a strong body against hers, nor the flashes of blue when she cracked her eyes open and stared into his as he released her slowly.

They hadn't said anything about the stupid smile that seemed to have etched itself onto her face, or his. They hadn't précised that when he bumped his forehead against hers, it actually hurt a little, but there was his breath above her lips again, and she didn't really care about all this after all.

Eventually Kaito whispered, in a breathless voice, "So… no Divorce court after all, uh?"

… for some reason it was the most beautiful declaration she had ever given. She grinned. "No, I don't think so. I've grown rather weary of trial courts. Congratulations. You may kiss the bride."

"Again?" Kaito murmured, and leaned in.

It was only much, much later, in the midst of kissing and laughing and trying to keep one's breath, that he whispered something along the lines of, 'And may I claim my conjugal rights now?' and it spoke enough for Aoko's enjoyment of the current situation that she kissed him again immediately.

--

"Nakamori Ginzo, young master," Jii-chan said the next morning.

Kaito blinked, looked around lazily, tried to struggle against the joined forces of sleep and the entangling bedsheets and Aoko's arms, failed, tried again, gave it up, and eventually said, in a very intelligent manner, "Hnnn?"

"Nakamori Ginzo," Jii-chan repeated. He précised helpfully, "Her ladyship's father, young master. He's waiting for you downstairs. He says there is an urgent matter he has to discuss with you – and then he would wish to speak to her ladyship as well."

"H'mmm," Kaito said, waking up by inches. "…all right, Jii-chan, you won. Aoko and I are getting dressed and coming down in a minute… and would you be so kind as to make us something by way of a breakfast sometime?"

"Of course, young master." Jii-chan bowed himself out of the room, and Kaito dropped his head back onto the pillow exhaustedly, thinking, _Why the hell can't they leave us alone?_

"What is my father doing, visiting us at dawn," Aoko mumbled, snuggling closer to him. Kaito looked down at her, hand running thoughtfully in her hair.

"It's ten in the morning, honey."

"_Don't_ call me honey…_ ten in the morning?"_ she sat up immediately, remarked belatedly her very naked state, and gathering the bedsheets on her bust. "_Stop_ sniggering, Kaito… how could we sleep so late as ten in the morning?"

"I don't think that's much of a question," Kaito replied absently, concentrated on sneaking one hand up her back to push her against him again. "It isn't exactly as if we went to sleep so early yesterday night, either…"

Aoko crammed him with a pillow.

--

**-gives cookies to readers who've managed the read till the end- Well done! You still alive? It won't be this long next time, I promise ;) well, I think. I hope. –author very exhausted right now, munches on cookies– It was my first AU in a completely different space-time location… -goes and starts on others- Thanks for the read, minna! See you next time?**

**-whistles- **_**Welcome to Cookieland, cookies for everyone…**_


	10. Whom The Worlds Change For

A/N:

**A/N: Oh, dear. It's been ages, right? I've got this HUGE writerblock for weeks… besides homework is hell. -sara-chan trying to grasp at her vacation- And I've been working on, uuuh… that would be five or six fics all at once, which is also hell. (I've been feeding my muse too many cookies, I should think.)**

**-gets bricked by said muse-**

**Oh, yeah. Ficcie dedicated to katiesparks, because it's Halloween day (so. Part of the festivities too) – and to prompt her to continue that new geisha story of hers. Damn it.**

**Disclaimer. I don't own. Don't make no money. You don't sue. Yadda yadda yadda. x3**

-

Whom The Worlds Change For

-

They meet sometime in the street.

Aoko is walking a little too fast, and she trips over her own feet often and guides herself home by the lights around her; she is way too distressed and hazy-minded to care about how she's dressed. Kaito, when she spots him – or spots him is probably wrong, tumbles in his sight is more like it – is wearing his usual jeans and a coat over them, and she mildly registers that it must be really cold if he has a _coat_ on; he's leaning against a lamppost and looking out for her as though it's perfectly natural for him to be there right now.

No, not natural – she understands, and breaks down a sob – as though he was always meant to be there when she comes.

They're close much sooner than she thinks is humanely possible – but he's hardly a few feet away from the lamppost really, so she must have gone all that distance on her own – and his arms are open and then around her, and his shoulder against her face is grounding and warm.

Her arms sneak around his chest, underneath his coat, and his embrace wrapping her up tightly she curls up against him, so close, so _close_ she wants to burrow inside of him, make herself whole by being part of him.

His scent reaches her as she presses the cold tip of her nose against the exposed skin of his neck, deep and addictive and wonderfully _real_ and there, and she breaks before she even knows she did.

She doesn't know how long he holds her, how long her body shakes in tearless, ragged sobs, how long his hands run in wide, soothing circles on her shivering – from what, cold or crying – back, warming up the ice-like fabric of her shirt. She can feel each tip of each finger, and the strong, comforting pressure of the palm as it brushes down to the small of her back, climbs up the spine, reaches her shoulder blades and goes back down from there.

–_warm_.

Her own hands crawl quietly up his sides, and one grasps at his shoulder while the other digs in his hair – painfully, she'll think later, but he doesn't as much as hiss in discomfort – stilling, stilling there. Her fingers are trembling, but she hopes he won't notice it too much.

(And it's stupid, because he always notices everything, but he says nothing. And it's almost as well.)

Her face is still pressed against the cloth of his pullover, and she takes comfort from the knowledge that she doesn't wet it with tears, and that it's thick enough to muffle her moans even to her own ears.

They must have been standing under the lamppost quite a long time now, and her shaking scarcely starts to subside. Kaito's hands, however, have stilled, one around her waist, holding her so tight – she almost believes he's shivering too, or maybe she passed it on to him – the other, heavy fingers on her nape, bringing her head down and her face against his collarbone.

It speaks enough for his own emotion that his face is buried in her neck, nose in her hair and breath in her ear, and it speaks enough for _hers_ that she just begins to realize it.

When they pull back, it's only for a few moments and only for something as thoroughly unimportant as air, but his hand reaches up to the crown of her head and starts a _rubbing_ motion, or _combing_, maybe, as his fingers run between the strands of brown hair and trace down to the shell of her ear. Her scalp tingles almost deliciously.

"KID," she gasps, and her voice is, unsurprisingly, high-pitched and broken with those unshed tears of hers.

"I know." She doesn't ask why, or how, although he told her he wasn't going to come to or even watch the heist. He's Kaito. He knows, just like he knew he had to be there tonight, in this deserted street where she could meet anybody, fall onto any kind of mishap.

"My father–"

"I know."

They share the cold and silence and the electric, quivering light of the lamppost a few minutes more.

"You should go back home," he says finally, mouth muffled in her hair.

She nods once.

Neither of them move.

In the end, he carries her home in his arms – princess style, she knows he'll joke later, but for now he's silent and she curls up in his warmth like an wet kitten. The fabric of his coat is rough and slightly scratchy underneath her cheek, and it shifts every time he jerks her a little closer to his shoulder, careful not to let her slip.

He lets her down when they reach her building, and their hands are still holding each other all the way up the lightless stairs (to prevent either of them falling, she'll think, but his palm is warm and presses agreeably against hers). He opens the door to her flat without asking her her keys – and she's certain she'd locked the door before leaving for the heist, but.

She only realizes this later, when he drops her gently on her bed, the thought fleeing in her mind and she hardly pays any attention to it, just briefly wondering. He quickly tugs her pants away, pulling her back against the pillow, and tosses the garment to the foot of the bed.

"Kaito…"

"It's okay." He makes to pull her shirt over her head, then appears to think better of it, and tucks her in without another word. "I think you should try and get some sleep," he says eventually, unfolding a blanket. His voice is very quiet and gentle, not at all like her usual clownish best friend.

This is, she thinks, something else.

He turns to go, and her hand shots up to grab the hem of his black pullover (when did he take off his coat? She didn't even notice).

"Stay?"

Her voice is almost a plea, and when he turns back to look down at her she sees on his face his weighing pros and cons. They've slept together many times when they were children, but they're much older now, and they have to deal with grownup bodies _and_ hormones, which isn't exactly easy. Then again, they're both adults, both knowing their responsibilities and masters enough of their bodies and their relationship to avoid doing… anything.

It's a bit of a dare to discover that now, that way. It's a gentle, slow, sincere process, unidentifiable on its own, and lacking only the trigger that tonight was.

"Alright," he says eventually, and there's a bit of a grin in his voice. He gets rid of his pullover, keeping only his jeans on, and slips in between the sheets, against her, warm. Later, she'll think it curious that the first thing she thinks is that his feet are cold, making first contact with hers.

She puts her head down on the pillow.

"Tell me you won't be gone in the morning," she mumbles, sleep already taking its toll. "There won't be a rose, or a note, or the like. You."

Through the slits of her already closing eyes, she sees him grin quite frankly this time, the way he did as a child. "I'll be there." –and for some reason or other she thinks of coffee, the scent seeping through the flat in the morning and the rich, dark taste against her tongue.

She feels him, rather more than sees him, reach up to switch off the lamp, and the bedroom falls completely dark. She thinks, while he pulls her a little closer, that their eyes will accustom themselves to the obscurity and discern the grey hues, but for now she wraps her arms around his chest and lets her head loll on his shoulder. His hand presses at the back of her head, fingers threading with the locks. They used to sleep like that as children.

Tomorrow they'll still be adults, limbs entangled and breath on the same pillow. There'll be coffee and breakfast and trying to understand how things are going to unfold from now on; the same as they ever did, really.

She can feel it–or is it hear it–faintly. _Thud. Thud. Th-thud. Th-th-thud. Thudthudthud. _The–almost–synchronicity of their heartbeats.

The world tomorrow will be something entirely different.

-

Riiiiiight. -sara-chan currently sipping tea with cookies- Muses are. Weird. As in. Weird. End of story.

Next oneshot will be… longer. Lengthy. You may want to read those Arsene Lupin books of yours again. (And if you don't have any, shame on you! The library's that way.) … nah. You don't–really–have to. Well. Maybe just a little. (Exam time: Who's Lupin?)

_**-bakes and offers cookies to apologize for the… long… wait-**_


	11. Falling Down With London Bridge

**A/N: Oh, dear. Another one of those… huge… long… oneshots… I blame it all on writerblock. And those Maurice Leblanc books of mine. 'Cause when inspiration **_**finally**_** struck, my muse decided to be whimsical and started off on another of those huge shots. Read this at your own peril. –bows and offers cookies to the courageous readers–**

**Disclaimer: I never owned. I don't. I never will. Earning money out of it? I just wish. All the quotations are Maurice Leblanc's (though translation's by me! x3).**

**Warnings: AU, again. And the length. A small knowledge of Arsene Lupin books is highly recommended, though the story is understandable on its own.**

**Space-time location: I have no idea. I've been placing it in Paris, but that may be only because I myself am a Parisian and Lupin's adventures are often happening there. Could be anywhere, really. But yeah, Jii-chan's a Frenchman again – he does like going to Paris in the manga, after all.**

**--**

**Falling Down With London Bridge**

**--**

_'Arsene Lupin would escape from prison. It was inevitable, fateful. People were even surprised that it should last so long. Every morning, the Prefect of Police asked his secretary– "Well! He hasn't gone yet?"_

"_No, sir."_

"_Then tomorrow he will."'_

–from L'évasion d'Arsene Lupin

_--_

She didn't know what she had expected.

Of the notorious, internationally wanted thief 1412, a.k.a. Kaitou KID, she knew little more than did the common newspaper readers. What her father had told her amounted to nothing much. He'd described the heists with accurate precision when he was maddest about them, and once and twice she'd found him fast asleep on the papers he'd been working so late on the night before, but of KID himself, he was unnaturally silent.

She knew, like everybody did, that Kaitou KID was a young man with black hair and blue eyes. She knew the sound of his laugh, of his voice. She knew his cocky, mischievous character, his habit of tricking those who dared approach him too close. She knew of his gallantry, his gentleman ways, his stubborn refusal to hurt anybody, were they on his side or the other. She had studied his heists enough to know their usual pattern, beforehand note and cheeky audience and phantom-like escape. She knew that no one, except the officer who'd captured him, had ever seen his face.

None of this had had her prepared.

She had seen the data as completely separate information, had never thought of putting them all together and seeing what would come out of it. Had never imagined – had _known_, but never _seen –_ up to the last moments when the cell's door had turned slowly, silently, heavy with protection devices, that KID was more than a phantasm, more than data on her comp's screen.

She had not been prepared to meeting someone.

She had not been prepared to the sight of the young man – and yes, she'd _known_ he was young, but it made an actual difference to witness it in person – with wild black hair and blue eyes, coiled on the windowseat with a book in his hands and a hum on his lips.

The door turned again and shut behind her, with a soft click, and he looked up immediately, blue eyes meeting hers and looking – not nervous, not anxious, as she would have expected from a prisoner – curious, simply curious to know who had come to lighten up his day.

He put his book away and rose, meeting her with an outstretched hand, and – kami, he was even younger than she'd thought, twenty-five? Twenty-six? Surely it couldn't be any more than that. His handshake was firm and quick.

"Aah, so you're the long-expected lawyer," he said, beckoning her over to a plain wooden chair. "I half-waited a long-bearded old chum, who'd say I'd better plead insanity to the trial." He pulled a childish grimace. "Sit down, sit down. I am so sorry I cannot offer you more, or any refreshment at all. My current lodgings are not very well-furnished," he added wryly.

So Aoko sat on the unique chair, and he propped himself up on the table and folded his hands neatly, looking at her in a 'so-what're-you-going-to-do-now' way.

"I'm Nakamori Aoko," she said, and thought she saw something flicker in the blue eyes before his mouth twisted in another lopsided smile.

"I thought so. Nice to meet you," he replied, and pulled out a rose out of his fingers and offered it to her. Aoko arched an eyebrow. "I may call you Aoko, yes?" he added, with a charming grin.

… so he knew how to handle women. But that was nothing new to her. She'd seen him charm and lure women to have his way through, the dreamy looks on their faces when she'd interrogated them, even years afterwards, at the mere thought of the cloaked thief. She was_ not_ going to turn into one of them.

"And how may_ I_ call you? KID-san? Thief-san? Internationally wanted 1412-san?"

"… I think we can stick to Kaito now."

"Kaitou?" The other eyebrow joined up the first.

"_Kaito."_

His grin was merely cheeky and she sighed, taking out her suitcase and the KID folder in it. "Look, if we're going to work together I think you should start telling me the truth. Your real name would be a good beginning, if anything."

"But it is. My real name. Kaito." She looked at him, and he smiled, more softly. "It seems that my parents had the gift of foresight or something. Or it runs in the blood." –and there was very little that was trustful in this, but she found herself drawn to believing him.

She looked away from him, turning her gaze on her papers instead. She was not – she was_ not_ – supposed to see him as anything else than a thief, her client, but he looked – too much, too much – like a person, like an actual person. _Well, of course he does. He is. But he–_

… and there was something there. Something that…

"Alright. Kaito. Your full name, then."

"–how old are you?" he asked suddenly, and before she could say, What? added, "You can't be more than twenty-five. You can't. So you must have been born around the time when KID appeared for the first time."

She frowned. "I'm twenty-six." –and he grinned. "_What?"_

"… We're the same age." And by the time she'd assimilated the information, he was already prattling on, "So that's why you're called Aoko. It's because your father had already begun chasing after KID, and he called you like that." He laughed. "Don't you see? It all makes sense."

_We're talking of two entirely different things,_ Aoko thought. "Speaking of which," she prompted, trying to sideslip him back into the right track. "If you're twenty-six you can't have been the first KID who appeared twenty-seven years ago. Who was he?"

_Your father? A friend? A teacher? Magic_, she thought, remembering the tricks and traps._ Think magic._

"Should I answer that?"

"… quite frankly, if you want to get through your trial without at least twenty years in, you'd better." Her fingers crisped on the corner of the suitcase, where she had stocked the summary of everything she'd looked up about him, then relaxed, and she felt, although he hadn't turned his gaze towards her hand, that he hadn't missed a thing.

"Aah, but maybe I do not plan on attending my trial."

_Familiar._ It was just there, just out of reach. Something – something that meant… that meant… she frowned, trying to grasp at the thought. Something that had to do with a memory. Some– a song? He'd been humming. A book?

"… if you didn't you wouldn't have asked for a lawyer, would you?"

He was silent.

"Point," he then admitted, more slowly. He slid off the table, sticking his hands into his pockets, and took a few steps around the cell, forcing her to look around to keep track on him. The room was bare, hardly furnished with anything else than the table and a bed. "So what do you want to know?"

She got out a jotter and a propelling pencil. "Your full name would be a good start."

"I can't tell you that."

She let out an exasperated sigh. "I _told_ you…"

"Don't get me wrong. I would if I was alone," he said smoothly, and she could _feel_ the lie behind this. "But I have a mother. If I told you my full name, she'd be sure to be bothered by police officers and journalists, and she's distressed enough as it is. Isn't that true?"

It was true. "Fine," she said. "Kaito for now. Well then. Who was the first KID?"

He looked curiously at her. "Shouldn't you be asking me _why_ I'm being KID in the first place?" –and there it was again. It was there again, the feeling that something – _some_thing was escaping her. Why hadn't she asked him? She'd always wondered. _Why _was the first thing that'd come to her mind, when she was finally able to ask him, was to know who the first KID was?

"I…" she coughed. "… okay. Why are you KID?" and knew her answer. He wouldn't say it. But that wasn't _it_, either.

"… I can't tell you," he replied, predictably.

"Then why are you asking me to ask you?" she exclaimed, and sat back in her chair with a huff. "You're not making this any easier. I'm your _lawyer_. I'm supposed to defend you at the trial. I'm supposed to have something to _say_ for your defence. If you don't tell me anything, you won't be able to get out of it."

"… Why…" he started, and there was a soft knock at the door.

"… I've got to go," Aoko said, cramming her things back into her suitcase. "I'll come back in three days. Till then, try and think up things you_ can_ tell me. Goodbye," she added, outstretching her hand.

He grinned and shook it. "Till three days, then. Oh, and wait… is this yours?" he held up her watch. Aoko immediately rubbed her wrist, which she found bare. She snatched it away from him and glared, putting it back on.

"Why, you…"

"Thief," he suggested, and plopped back down on the windowseat, picking up his book. "Sorry. Bad habit of mine. I've been reading too much," and flicked through the pages to find his chapter again. Aoko glared a little longer, then went out.

While the door was turning shut, she heard him humming again.

"Well?" Hakuba asked, looking earnestly at her. "How did it go?"

"I…" she paused. "I don't know. He didn't say anything valuable." She rubbed her forehead tiredly, feeling a migraine perking up behind her eyes. "He's… is it very safe that you should be alone to guard him?" she asked, casting a frowning look around the anteroom. It was almost as bare as the cell, and there was another huge, barred door on the opposite wall. "You'd almost think _you_'re a prisoner too."

"Nah, it's alright," Hakuba said, but from the shadows under his eyes she could see it was _not_ alright. "There are two other guards outside this door, and no one passes me without passing them too. They're giving me the lunches, and I'm giving them to him when they're gone."

"To protect his anonymity," Aoko frowned.

"Only till the trial. We can't allow the public to know where he is, or they're be crowding out that door. Only me and the prefect of police know where he is kept. Even _they_–" with a nod at the door, "–don't know it's him they're guarding. They think he's a serial murderer. Which keeps them from the curiosity to go and have a peek at him," he added, smiling.

"… but you're alone with the full responsibility of him," Aoko said worriedly. "You don't look very good. Are you eating okay?"

"Yes, mother. Don't worry about me," he said with a half-grin. He ran a hand through his blond hair, messing up the usually sage locks, and if that was any indication that there _was_ subject to worry… "Anyway, it's best that way. So when he…" he stopped, and then went on, "when he gets to trial, that'll be a surprise for everyone."

And that obviously was not what you were about to say, Aoko thought, narrowing her eyes at him. When he what?

"So how did you find him?" he asked, eager to skip to another subject, and Aoko complied grudgingly.

"I don't… he's not what I had expected," she said, and then waited for him to ask what she'd expected, but he didn't. "He danced around all my questions and never was serious with me for a second, but he doesn't look like the gentleman thief he's said to be. He was…" _a young man._ "He's disconcerting."

"Kaito's a strange boy," Hakuba mused approvingly, and Aoko looked up.

"He's told you his name was Kaito, too?"

"He's told me to _call_ him Kaito," he said, "and then added something about him having a full name like everybody but also having a mother like everybody." Aoko nodded. "And him being fated to turn out a thief, but he was grinning that _grin_ of his–" another nod. "I don't think it's his real name."

But it is, Aoko thought when she'd said goodbye and gone. It was. He was saying the truth. There was something – something in his air, in the way he spoke – _easy_ – that couldn't have been anything but the truth. He's not trying to confuse us. Or he is, but in a very strange way.

And there was something else. Something to do with thievery running in his blood – something _meaningful_. She closed her eyes, trying to remember. She'd been taking out her folder and he'd said– 'Or it runs in the blood,' and–

And it's stupid, she thought, spotting her car and walking over. There had been nothing meaningful at all. It was just him being mischievous, and Kaito wasn't his real name at all. He was a _thief._ He was KID. He knew all the tricks to lure people, the ropes to tug on to make them believe something or other. And she'd been walking head-on into it. She fished in her pocket for her car keys.

And came out with a red rose – the rose – the rose he'd given her and she was certain she hadn't thought of picking up on the table as she left – and a neatly folded note. When,_ when_ had he done this?

She unfolded the note.

_You should read Arsene Lupin books,_ it said.

--

The second and third sessions were equally unfruitful as the first.

KID – or Kaito or whatever, really – wasn't cooperating at all. He slipped by all her questions with exasperating slyness, and spent all his time juggling with flags and garlands and doves and making a clown of himself. He would shower her with confetti if the question she asked displeased him, or simply puff up blinking balls and roses and silver trumpets without leaving her a single opportunity to see _how_ he'd done it.

Or he would simply pick on humming. Or reading.

"You're impossible," she sighed, exasperated, in mid-third session. "You're not taking any of this seriously, do you?"

"… you shouldn't take anything seriously, Aoko. Especially not life." He grinned, pulling a coin out of her ear. She shrugged him off. "Anyway, I know you're such a great lawyer you won't have a problem to defend me perfectly at the trial."

"I won't," Aoko huffed. "I'll make fools of you and me because you won't have told me anything."

He smiled, and sat on the table, pushing away her papers. "I'll tell you something. I'll tell you what being KID feels like."

Aoko arched an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"It's like walking on a tightrope," he said seriously. "You feel the wind going by, and you never know if and when you're going to fall. The adrenaline surges up, and it's an addictive feeling, really. You have to take every minute step very carefully and yet make it look like it's so easy anyone could do it…take this and say it at the trial," he chuckled. "You'll see they'll be so fascinated they'll acquit me without a second thought."

Aoko's eyes narrowed. "That's what you think, uh? You think the jury will be so fascinated by your KID persona you'll be able to pull it off without trouble for yourself?"

" With lots of Trouble for everyone else," he corrected her. "… maybe I do."

"That's stupid."

"Which is why it's so brilliant."

Aoko glared at him for a second, watching him hum softly as he juggled rapidly with shiny glass balls. He's not trusting me a second, she thought, and cut in with a sharp, "What happened to the previous KID?"

His hands didn't slow down a fraction. "… he died."

… Of course. KID's career had been interrupted at least once after ten years of loyal services. The break had lasted seven years, seven long years during which her father had been reduced to mere robbery cases that left him fuming when he came home at night. And then the _Torimitsu_ had received a letter from the infamous Kaitou KID – a letter some had believed to be a prank, but the police had taken no chances.

They'd sent her father again, and KID had been right on time.

This had happened nine years before. Which meant Kaito, if he was telling the truth about his age, must have been seventeen on that first heist of his, Aoko thought, gazing thoughtfully at the young man sitting across from her. Seventeen. He'd been so young – why, he must have been in high school – and yet he'd taken KID up without a second thought – taken it up and made a legend of it all over again.

And to end it all here, in a prison cell.

"Kaito," she said slowly, and he looked up and smiled. "Who was the first KID?" and somehow, _somehow_ he looked like he understood her full meaning, what she hadn't been able to voice out. It shouldn't be that way, she thought – and then wondered why.

"My master," he said softly. "The one who taught me everything – and the best man that ever was."

And there it was again. The feeling – the _feeling_ that something was slipping past her, just at hand's reach, but – fleeing – gone – when she tried to grasp at it.

He was humming again. It was soft, and somehow in sync with his juggling– hmm hm hmmmh mm, and Aoko had to click her tongue, irritated. "Very well," she snapped, back to the strictness of the lawyer she was supposed to be. "I don't suppose you'll tell me anything about the Black Pearl case?" and he laughed and started pulling flags out of his sleeve.

"I don't _understand_ where he takes them from," she complained later, to a worn-out-looking Hakuba. "Haven't you been searching him for whatever he was carrying?"

"Of course I have," the half-brit snapped, obviously irritated by lack of sleep. "Every week. I never find anything. The only place I haven't peered into is his underwear – and he's had changes of those with changes of clothes every three days."

"And yet he keeps pulling… things… flags and trumpets and doves out of nowhere. Where does he even find _food_ for those?"

Hakuba shrugged half-heartedly. "I don't know. Honestly, I don't want to know."

"But it might be important," Aoko insisted. "It might… I don't know… if there are exchanges possible between the outward world and his cell, he can use that for escape devices. He can manage to send messages to his accomplices, get them to send him weapons or–"

"Aoko-san, this is _KID _we're talking about," Hakuba said irritatingly. "He won't use weapons against any of us. Besides, if we cut him out one way, he'd find another. So long as he keeps getting nothing more alarming than flags, I don't see what I can do against that. He always comes back to–" and cut himself off again. Aoko glared at him.

"But it might be a key," she said, then gave up and went back home to transcript today's notes.

They amounted to nearly nothing, and after a while of staring at the almost-blank screen, she wheeled her chair around and stared outside the window. It was dark already; the town's bright lights stood out painfully against the violet-shaded sky. There were no stars to be seen through the thick clouds, and Aoko leaned her head against the cool glass, hoping it'd help her clear it up.

It made no sense. KID himself made no sense at all, and Hakuba not much more. They weren't going to get through with anything if this went on the way – the slow, excruciatingly lingering way – it did now. And Kaito a.k.a KID was obviously _not_ going to ever help her.

She could always give up. Loads of lawyers would be thrilled to take her place, even though it meant having a few weeks off their schedule, and she'd only got the case because of her father, really. And she hadn't had anything in mind – anything real, definite, anything solid to rely upon – when she'd first begun.

Only she had. She hadn't had any more data than any of her colleagues would have had, but she _had_ had something definite. She wanted to understand. She wanted to _know_.

She had never liked KID. She had hated him for a long time, and she knew he remembered her as the Nakamori girl who showed up at his heists with anti-KID banners, remembered her as the girl whose father he was stealing. Yet now there she was, his lawyer, the one who would defend him at one of the most awaited trials of the century.

There was a great difference, she pondered, between hating someone one had never seen and hating someone one was continually thrown with. But she had never seen him when she'd stepped forwards to be lawyer for the defence, instead of the prosecution like most of her friends expected; she'd never seen his face, much less been in any relative way close to him like she was now.

As of now, she only wanted to know who KID was – what it was he stood for, what it was that was so important her father had died for it.

She wanted to _understand._

And this feeling, the feeling she had started experiencing more and more around the man, was definitely the key, no matter what Hakuba said. The feeling that something was just there for her to take, and she had only to reach out – but never seemed to be quick enough. And it wasn't – no, it wasn't the feeling that she didn't know something, but that, for some reason or another, she already knew it. She just couldn't figure out what.

Think, she thought, staring at the screen. Think. Something about seeing KID as a person, not as a ghost, something about the previous KID… about the… what was it again? She felt positive she had felt it more than twice. One was this afternoon, when he'd talked about his master, and before–

She looked up the entries of the two previous sessions. She hadn't reported when exactly she'd felt this, but – she scrolled down the pages, looking for something, anything, that might trigger the feeling again. Nothing in the second session. She skipped to the first.

'I may call you Aoko, yes?' 'I think we can stick to Kaito for now.' No, nothing of that. She ran down.

'How old are you?' 'We're the same age. Don't you see? It all makes sense.' _What does?_

'If you're twenty-six… who was he?' 'Should I answer that?' 'Frankly, if you don't want to… I think you'd better.'

There it was, she thought with a jolt. There. 'Maybe I do not plan on attending my trial.'

And why was that familiar, too? She'd seen that sentence before. Heard – no, not heard it, read it. She'd read it somewhere, sometime when she was younger, much younger. She could almost remember the sensations – shock, excitation, nervousness, elation – she'd felt. A novel. No, it was shorter. A story?

And there was something her father had said, too. Was that why she felt it was, somehow, the key? No… he hadn't been too happy about her reading the book. Why? He'd said–

Kaito must have known, she realized with a jerk. He surely knew. It probably was in that book he'd been reading when she'd come in for the first time. She'd just have to ask him–wait, she thought, squinting at her screen to remember how the book had looked. Maybe it was the same collection as hers had been, and if it was…

It'd been red. Red with a… what… title in green… or were they blue letters? And below, an image. A picture of something or other. A necklace, she thought suddenly. Gems, and then thought, You're confabulating. KID steals gems, but that doesn't mean he reads about them too.

But he must have, or the character in this book wouldn't have said, 'I do not plan on attending my trial.' A prisoner had said that. A criminal. A thief?

Right. Her father had said, 'I don't like the idea of you enjoying the adventures of a… something… robber.' Or something thief. What thief? There had to be something there, something that might be a clue to the solution. The adventures of a…

Some curse or other, Aoko thought, discouraged. Of a damn thief. Or something. Knowing her father it couldn't have been anything else.

She could always ask Kaito next time, she mused abstractedly, and then ran a search through the whole KID folder for the words 'thief' and 'trial', and scanned through the manifold results thorough the whole evening.

--

Kaito was not reading when she came in for the fourth session, after three exhausting days of running from the prosecution quarters to the defence quarters and back and trying to find out reliable witnesses for the trial. (It wasn't, as might be expected, she thought, that there weren't _enough_, but rather that there were _too_ much. Exactly how many women had he fleetingly seduced on his way to one jewel or another?)

When she asked him about the book he'd had in hands on their first meeting, he just grinned clownishly and said something of 'Maa, Aoko, you know I'm not allowed anything like books' or the like.

Which was probably why he received newspapers, she thought, eyeing the _Torimitsu _on the table. A large picture of… yes, it _was_ KID, occupied the front page, along with a diagram of something and a long article. Probably about the trial being only a month away and the lawyer for the defence not being able to find anything valuable to defend her client, she thought, picking up the page.

It wasn't. Instead there was a long clipping in italics and a prose she only… too well… recognised.

'_Dearest readers of the Torimitsu,'_ it said,

'_You are not without knowing that I am currently on a health cure in prison. This stay, however, is only temporary, much as I am sorry to part with my caring, job-consuming guardians (you public never know how devoted they are to their task. Why, they have been trying to capture me for twenty-seven years straight, and now that they have managed it, are not keen on letting me go so easily)._

'_Yet you must not fret. I hereby announce my decision NOT TO ATTEND MY TRIAL, although I know the seats have all been bought already and some of you will be disappointed not to enjoy my company a little longer, and be therefore able to witness my handsome face by themselves._

'_I will not, however, attend my trial. It pains me to sadden you, but so it is – and we shall have another chance of meeting under the stars again. This prospect alone comforts me from having to part with Hakuba-guardian-san, and my lovely lawyer, Nakamori Aoko, daughter of the well-known late inspector Nakamori, who devoted the twenty last years of his life in running after me._

'_Do not await news of my evasion. It is probable that the KID Task Force (how delightful it is to have one's own Task Force!) will never admit to having let me go until the very last moment, when they no longer have any chance of catching me again before the trials begins._

'_I will, however, pass on further bulletins through this charming organ that always has had the courtesy to publish me, the _Torimitsu.

'_Till then.'_

There was no signature, but a mocking caricature at the end of the letter that said it all, and Aoko wheeled round to Kaito, who was busying himself with the wing of a dove. He looked up on his own, probably because she was so radiating waves of anger.

"Kaito. Did you write this?" she asked suddenly, crushing the paper in his lap.

He gave it one glance and nodded. "Sure. Why?"

"You're in _prison!"_ she hissed. "You're not supposed to be sending out letters to newspapers to tell them you're not planning on staying there!"

"Oh?" he cocked an amused eyebrow. "But I _don't_ plan on staying here. I believe it's my duty to inform the public of that, so they're not _too_ disappointed. Supposed or not, if I can, why should I restrain from it?" He looked genuinely curious, and it made Aoko want to yell.

"But you _will_ attend your trial! You're just bluffing! Admit it, Kaito, there's no way you can get out of this cell–what?" he was frowning down at her, the small quirk of his mouth just enough to show his downright enjoyment of this.

"H'mm. Didn't Hakuba tell you?"

She scowled. "… tell me what?"

"Nothing!" he trilled, and went back to whistling the same tune he'd been humming and back to his dove's wing. "It's much funnier if you find it out on your own," and hadn't she known better she would've thought, from the look on his face, that he was scheming something nasty.

"Find what out on my own?" She was still holding the paper, and upon finding that she'd nearly crushed it to disintegration, relaxed her fingers again. Hakuba, uh. Was it just her imagination or had those two found some kind of implicit commitment?

_Twinge. _She winced and squinted again, trying to realize. What– implicit commitment?

"You'll see for yourself soon enough," Kaito chanted, effectively ruining her concentration, and then cheerfully proceeded to make himself thoroughly unhelpful all the way through that interview.

And the next.

And the one after that.

Aoko went home at night exhausted both mentally and physically, after running around all day in corridors and in her mind. _Then_ she had to type in all her reports, and try and make sense around Kaito's statements.

They didn't. Make sense. He just seemed to be dropping them haphazardly, without any order or logic, and merely, it seemed, for the sake of annoying the hell out of her. Most times he appeared to be making fun of her. Others he was simply being nonsensical.

She started noting down his comportment as well – 'popped up dove then' 'offered me a bouquet of roses' 'started pulling out his handkerchief and got out a string of scarves and flags from his pocket instead' – and if it meant anything she had no clue what. And yet she couldn't shake off the impression that it _did_ mean something, that he was _not_ simply being nonsensical, that he was aiming at something. That it all – the doves and the teasing and the regular letters to the press and the book and the humming – somehow, in some weird pattern of his own, fitted in.

So far, she had no idea what it was, and so far, it pissed her off.

"You know what you remind me of?" she asked at the end of a very frustrating seventh session. "You remind me of a teenager who's just making fun of everyone, including himself."

"Maybe that's exactly what I am," he said lightly, glancing at her from his favourite seat at the window. "Maybe you've just hit the sore spot of my charac–"

"So all that KID persona was just for fun," she blurted out, thinking of her father. "It was just this? Nothing but gusto? You didn't mean any of it?"

He was watching her, and she thought, He knows exactly what I'm thinking of. Then he unwrapped himself from the windowseat and crouched in front of her, taking her hand. "Of course not, Aoko." She recoiled for a second, then relaxed. "If there's one thing I can tell you, it's this. It wasn't just for kicks, I swear."

His thumb was brushing soothingly against the back of her hand. "Your father–" he began again, and she thought, I was wrong. He didn't know what I was thinking of, he was thinking the same thing. The thought brought a strange bubble down in her throat. "He was loud, and I loved playing pranks on him, but he was a good man, and I – in my own peculiar way – respected him." He was silent for a second. (_So, so serious–)_

"He shouldn't have had to die that way." –and the door opened.

"… oh," Hakuba said, looking confused at the sight of them in a such a… position. Aoko probably would have flushed beet-red, had her mind not been occupied with other thoughts. "Sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt. I was just bringing in lunch," he said, and set a tray on the table.

Kaito sprung to his feet and leapt to inspect the food, 'ooh'- and 'aah'-ing over it, and Hakuba came to stand by Aoko, whispering, "Everything all right?"

She nodded, eyes never leaving Kaito's lean figure fussing over the table. "Everything's fine. I think. Ne, Hakuba-kun, have you checked this food? He might receive messages through the bread or–" and this was familiar again. She ransacked around for the thought, trying to grasp at it. The bread. And something about potatoes and a… cigar?

"I've opened the bread," Hakuba was saying, "and the food is cut so minutely there's no way there could possibly be a message in it. Besides, look at him. He's wolfing it down without a second thought."

Which he was. Aoko kept her eyes on him all through his lunch, which lasted all but five minutes, and Hakuba being as intent on watching him as she was, he couldn't possibly have sneaked something off the plate or the tray without any or both of them noticing.

"Aah, delicious, Hakuba-waiter-san," Kaito grinned back at them when he was done. "A bit short, but delicious. You'll pay my compliments to the chef, and please ask the prefect of police to allow such a good citizen as I am to eat a little more?"

"Stop joking," Hakuba scowled, picking up the tray, but Aoko stopped him.

"Wait. The fork." –and was dead certain Kaito turned and grinned at her. "What?" Hakuba said.

"_The fork_," she repeated. She pointed at it on the tray, and as Hakuba had both his hands busy holding it, picked it up herself and started turning it left, then right. "Maybe it's–" and it turned right and split in two. The shaft was hollow.

It was also empty. Hakuba cursed and turned to Kaito, who was_–still–_grinning.

"Maa, you didn't honestly expect such a gentleman as me to use such easy devices," he said, and that was what her father had said. Not damn. Not a curse. Gentleman. 'I don't like the idea of you enjoying the adventures of a gentleman thief.'

She excused herself, drove back home in a rush, and pulled her Arsene Lupin books out of the bookshelf.

--

It took her all evening to sort out the information Lupin provided her with. (The book wasn't red at all. It was light-brown, with the picture of a cell that was almost the split image of Kaito's.)

Still, it was obvious who KID had inspired himself from. Gentleman-thief. Casanova. Fair-play. Cheekiness. Refusal to kill anyone. Gentle, if not even friendly, behaviour towards the police. Love for… perilous…at best… situations. Stubborn determination (and success) to bend the common laws of physics. It was all there in the books.

Kaito had added his own personal touch, but the principles were all there, and he was obviously matching his stay in his cell to Lupin's in the French Santé. Elements – all those which had caught her attention over the weeks she had known him – all pointed to it.

Keeping newspapers in his drawer. Hollow forks (and that was the relation with cigars. Lupin's guardians had discovered the cigar along with the fork). Borrowing watches that weren't his own. Messages that passed from the inside of the cell to the outside without anyone knowing _how, _or _when_. Sending letters to newspapers.

'I will not attend my trial.'

The same words, the same meaning, and the same careless laugh behind it that convinced everyone he was as serious as could be.

(But if he intended to get out of his trial the same way as Lupin had, why was he leaving such obvious hints of their likeness? she thought. Surely, surely, it was to confuse them. _Or_ it was intended to let them think he _wasn't_ going to act as his model because it was so obvious, whereas he actually _was_… which was brain-consuming. She shrugged it off, merely filing down the supposition before heading back to studying the book, along with a much-needed coffee pot.)

Their behaviour corresponded too. Cheeky and arrogant, but a liveliness, a youth, a laughter that could only endear him both to the crowds and the police. 'What a strange boy!' exclaimed Ganimard, Lupin's police nemesis, amusedly, in _Arsene Lupin In Prison._ 'You're disconcerting.'

Which he was.

And deceptive, and sharp as a blade underneath.

They didn't exactly match, of course, because Lupin was a paper character and Kaito an actual person, for all his personas, but they fitted. It was almost frightening just how much. It was almost frightening how much both of them treaded the thin line between fiction and reality, the thin, thin, so thin line between danger and safety, life and death, caution and offhandedness, with the same careless laugh and the same pirouette – both quite willing to make the jump if it came to it.

Stop it, she thought. You're confabulating again. KID – _Kaito_ wasn't a novel character, he was a human being, and there was no such thing as bending the laws of physics. There were simply ropes, tricks, lures, traps. Machinery. If she started being sentimental about this case, she would soon be acting romantically, and that was probably the worst thing a lawyer could do. She had to keep cool, keep her will firm and rational.

… still.

' "It's very well to be someone or other,"' said Lupin to Ganimard at the end of the same short story, after his remarkable but by no means spectacular escape, ' "to skip personalities like shirts and to chose one's looks, one's voice, one's eyes, one's penmanship. But it so happens that one sometimes gets confused amongst it all, and that's sad. Right now, I feel the way the man must have felt who lost his shadow. I will seek myself… and find myself."'

… it was just as well the phone rang just then. Aoko paddled over to it in her crowded flat, sipping coffee and hoping it might clear her brain. She, too, felt like she had lost her shadow. "Hello?"

"Aoko-chaaaan!" Keiko whined on the other end of the line, and Aoko immediately considered hanging up and blaming it on static. She could hear a plane landing (or taking off, maybe) in the background, soon drowned again under Keiko's high pitches.

"How could you _not_ tell me you're lawyer for the defence? You _knew_ how much it meant to me that you should at _least_ be lawyer for the prosecution, but this is So Much Better!" She could _hear_ her lift a dramatic back of a hand to her forehead, in the airport or wherever her friend was. "I can't believe you must know all about KID now – but is it _fair_, really, that my own best friend should tell me nothing about it but I should learn it in the newspapers the day I come back to Japan? Ooh, but you must tell me all about it. I've heard they're not planning on showing his face until the trial's day (I really have _no_ idea why, what a stupid idea of protection) but you must have seen it, of course–"

"Keiko-chan," Aoko tried to put in through the flow. "Weren't you supposed to come back in a week?"

"Of course, but people are so barbaric! They could never understand true beauty–"

"… you're been fired?"

"Of _course _not! I left them hopeless and begging for my return–"

"… you've been fired."

"–but they can beg and beg and beg, I shall _not_ come back! I've received loads of letters from my fans, you know, who all plead for my return in some _other_ magazine, but that's not the point. The point is that you're coming to lunch with me tomorrow and telling me _all_ about Kaitou KID-sama. Have you taken any pictures of him?"

"These are confidential information," Aoko put in, formally. "I can't divulge them to anybody–"

"_Any_body, Aoko! I'm your best friend!"

_Yeah, and an active member of the Kaitou KID-sama fanclub. If I gave you those nonexistent-anyway photos, they'd be on the Net an hour later. _"Besides, I can't tomorrow. I've got a session with Kai–tou KID at one."

Mistake. Keiko started to squeal.

"Ooooh! _Are _you? Well, then, we can go together – that way I can take pictures for myself and have a nice little chat with him – wait, what ensemble should suit me best? Dear, dear, I'm just coming back from a trip, that's why I _so_ wanted you to tell me about this, Aoko-chan! Wait, you should know – what's his favourite colour, yellow or blue?"

"Keiko…"

"Oh, white, of course. He's always wearing white. Those doves of his." She giggled. "Here I come, Kaitou KID-sama, an innocent dove!"

It was hopeless. It took Aoko the best part of a half-hour to unhook her best friend from the phone, uh-huh-ing her all the way and almost hanging up in her face, and another one to recover from the shock. Keiko was always worst when she came back from those fashion trips of hers.

It had, however, cleared her head from Lupin (if not from KID) and she was able, upon settling back at her computer and staring doubtfully at the screen, to ponder the matter more rationally, which was all she needed.

Establishing a link (and the most obvious of all – Hakuba must have thought of it ages ago) between Lupin and KID was alright, but it was not her answer. It gave her an in-depth perception of KID's persona and of Kaito's personality, and their – wait, _his_ aptitude to resemble a Maurice Leblanc hero, and that could certainly help her understand him better, but it wasn't _her _answer.

But I felt it, she thought, scrolling up the pages to the first and second sessions. I felt it when he spoke of Lupin – or in Lupin's way. 'I do not plan on attending my trial' and my watch and the fork and the cigar-associatiion…

But not only that, she realized, skimming through the sessions. She'd also felt it when she'd thought he was an actual person, and when he'd asked her why she wasn't demanding after his reason for being KID. And 'it runs in the blood' and 'he was the best man I ever knew'.

No connection with Lupin through this – at least, she believed not.

It didn't help.

So Lupin wasn't the solution, nor yet an unknown. He was simply a, a… a clue to what it really meant.

Aoko rubbed her temples painfully. What it really meant. She couldn't even figure what _it_ was – a feeling, a sensation she felt every time she was around Kaito. The certainty that she knew something already (but couldn't remember it), and that this same knowledge was leading to the solution of–what? What was there that should be understood?

It had to do with Kaito–Kaito, and her father. Why he had died. What he had died _for_.

Lupin was a clue. She supposed that Kaito was a clue too. And his predecessor, probably, as well – 'the best man that ever was' – and yet, still, a thief, described by another thief. She shouldn't be trusting Kaito's word so easily. Or at all.

That's the main problem with this whole business, Aoko thought wearily, shutting the computer down and heading for the bathroom. She needed a long, warm, relaxing bath. It makes us all hypocritical, she thought, before drowning it under the rapid rush of hot water pouring down from the tap.

--

The next day was light and airy, wisps of November white clouds stripping the sky as Aoko walked down the boulevard at lunchtime, heading for the prison. Keiko being liable to show up on her doorstep and kidnap her, she'd left early for the library, where she'd worked for an hour, and had consequently forgotten all about lunch. Her stomach was currently howling with hunger.

She eyed mournfully one of the bakers on her way. The sandwiches in the windows were all gone or going, and she didn't have money enough for one anyway – nor even for a pastry of some kind. She'd have to settle for nicking some bread from Hakuba's or Kaito's lunchtray.

It was, however, a beautiful day – not quite sunny, but not as chilly as some others before – and the people of the boulevard were taking their sweet time, relaxing each of them in a sauntering stroll or at one of the cafés' terraces. The wind was brisk, though not enough to be sharp, and it hit her face agreeably.

A beautiful day.

"–Aoko!"

The only reason she didn't stagger on the spot was that she could _not_ hear that voice here, and therefore put it down to food-deprivation.

"Oï! A-o-_ko!"_

Nope. No food-deprivation. Unless it was a serious case of delirium. Maybe if she glared at him hard enough, the wild-haired young man in his twenties waving enthusiastically at her from the table of one of the cafés would just – disappear, and she could go on her ravenous way to the prison.

It didn't work one bit.

"What are _you_ doing here?" she hissed, slipping between the tables to sit on the chair next to his. It _was_ he – dressed casually in a black shirt and blue jacket, head tilting to the side like a perfectly genuinely curious and innocuous cat who's just managed to capture the canary without letting the canary know.

"Having lunch, of course," he replied, with a sharp grin, and surveyed her face critically. "You look like you haven't eaten in weeks. Well, I'll just have to order for the both of us, shall I?" It was a mild poke at the canary, and he was obviously very pleased with it.

"You're supposed to be in _prison_," Aoko hissed in her fiercest whisper. "Not having lunch on boulevards."

"Hm-mm," he hummed unconcernedly, turned, and waved at an oldish man in a black blouse. "_Garçon!"_

Aoko settled back down in her chair, cradling her bag on her lap and later letting it slip to her feet, and watched Kaito order to the waiter, eyes idly taking in the menu's columns. It must be awfully expensive here, she thought uncomfortably, squirming on her seat and looking around. The restaurant was large and well-built; the long windowpane gave a nice inkling of what winter evenings, with those candles lit and the dark red wood of the tables, might be here.

"_Huitres Musgrave,"_ Kaito was saying to the old man, rapidly. "Plain water, I think – the lady will not drink alcohol, and I must remain sober, of course." Another wry grin there – the cat opening its paw one inch, one wing aflutter. "No fish – a simple, one-plate meal, I suppose. And then a _Faisan rôti sur lit de pommes des champs–_whatever they are–_et herbes du verger._ Dessert ­– what do you like best, Aoko, _tarte meringuée_ or _Paris-Brest?_ Yes–_la tarte, je pense._ Then coffee and _croissants_, Jii-chan, thank you."

The old gentleman gave him a grin, striking in its likeness with Kaito's, and then bowed and swept off between the tables; Kaito watched him go fondly.

"Good ol' Jii-chan," he murmured. "Old friend of my dad's," he explained to Aoko. "Frenchman. Wonderful cook. We used to invite him over every night. When my father died–I was hardly ten back then–he set up this restaurant–" an almost-languid, in its quickness, wave of the hand over the terrace where they sat– "with the legacy. He's done great, I think."

The interval had given Aoko room to think.

Lupin again. Lupin too had escaped from prison once–though his escape was set up by the police; they'd hoped he'd lead them straight to his accomplices and they'd be able to hook up the whole lot–but Lupin had merely had lunch on the boulevards and then gone quietly home to prison with a laugh in the director's face.

But if Lupin had only done it once, this was obviously not the first time. Kaito was looking far too relaxed and genuinely happy–the cat just about to eat the canary now–and she seemed to recall some things Hakuba had hinted at, and then cut himself off–damn Hakuba. Couldn't all those guys just speak their minds?

"So." She said. "Come here often in the past weeks?"

The corners of his mouth softened a little, as he shot her an _I know that shit_ look. "Fairly," he laughed. "First time I did it, Hakuba almost had a stroke. He got used to it, though."

"Yeah?"

"H'm. Do understand, Aoko. Prison food is terrible, and when you've once tasted Jii-chan's cooking, you just _don't_ eat anything else. Sooo–" he laced his fingers behind his head and jerked his face back to look at the sky– "yes, fairly often. I like it here."

Jii-chan sauntered back up with a long-necked jug of water and a plate of oysters, and Kaito immediately skipped from the melancholy persona to the _Good let's have loads of fun_ one, and went through dissecting the lot in search for pearls. By the time Aoko had managed to understand the handling of those long pitched forks, he had already gone through half his plate, and was humming again.

It was a disturbing kind of humming. It was all the more disconcerting that she _knew_ what song that was–she just _knew_, it was on the tip of her tongue, she'd heard it all her life and kami, she hated that feeling when it came.

"Hmmm hmm hm hm hmm hm hm, hm hm hmm, hm hm hmm…"

Kami. The oysters were taken away, and she laid the fork back on the tablecloth, settling for drinking water instead. Kaito paid her no heed, and started juggling with forks and spoons and whatever silverware had found its way onto the table.

"Hmmm hmm hm hm hmm hm hm, hm hmm hm hm."

Another plate. Another fork. Suddenly Kaito stopped humming. "Aoko. Have you gone to the prosecution's quarters recently?"

"… just yesterday," she replied, stunned, a potato slipping out of her stabbing reach. "Why?"

"Well." He impaled a piece of meat on his knife, looked at it savagely, and ate it. "There was a nasty bit of critic in yesterday's papers–I think you must have seen it–" he levelled her with a grave, if amused gaze– "the prosecution saying we didn't have a bit of truth in our defence and my saying I wouldn't attend my trial was just showing off to cover that up."

"I wonder too," Aoko said coolly. "You do realise that apart from some segmented fragments I tore away from you at great cost and from Arsene Lupin, we have _nothing_ to rely on? Kami, Kaito, the trial's only three weeks away, so if you've got something to say say it now."

He sidestracked immediately. "Uh, so you've noticed that, right?"

"I have a little knowledge," she replied, still icily, and then feeling this deserved _some_ kind of explanation, at least, she added, "My mom offered me _Arsene Lupin in Prison_ when I was seven. My father was mad." She grinned.

"I can imagine." –and then it was her father talking, and she stared at his rapidly-moving lips, dumbfounded– "_Aoko darling, I don't like the idea of you enjoying the adventures of that goddamn gentleman thief_–" He scrunched up his nose. "Kami, it's weird thinking of Nakamori-keibu saying _darling_. –What?"

She was still staring at him.

"Ao–Shit. Gosh, I'm sorry–I didn't realize." She felt his hand on her shoulder, on her shoulderblade, on her back. "Aoko?"

"I—"

Kami, it's weird thinking of Nakamori-keibu saying– and… what else?

_The best man that ever was._

"I—" It was no use. It was gone–but it had been there one second before, like a heartstring to pull, and if only, if only she could have pulled at it, the whole thing would have unravelled like a tapestry, and clear and logical and–

"_Aoko."_

"Aah… yes?"

"I–"

"Kaito, the pie is coming."

He looked properly baffled, and when he handed her her plate and let their fingers brush, when she left cream on the corner of her mouth and he reached out to wipe it, and either time she didn't shrink back with an angry retort and flashing eyes, it only went deeper.

"See what I mean?" he asked, waving a spoonful of meringue at her. "After this, prison food is dog food. They really should try and treat their faithful citizens better–can't _you_ do something about this, Aoko? Can't you make a law or something–"

"Hmm."

Bewilderment mixed with alarm in his eyes. "–try and give us a French cook, I'm sure Jii-chan would accept to devote himself to the task–"

"London Bridge Is Falling Down," she blurted out suddenly, baffling him suitably for the second time.

"Uh… yes?"

Her voice had risen to a high-pitch in excitement and she leant forwards to bite into a sample of her pie, which he had been spoon-feeding her in last recourse. "London Bridge Is Falling Down," she repeated confusedly. "That's what you're humming, isn't it? what you were humming all this time?"

That was it. It was _it_. Well, no, it wasn't really–but it was Lupin and Kaito and 'I don't plan on attending my trial' all over again, a clue, a hint of something deeper, truer. Something that was _there_, something he was handing her on a silver plate, and she could only grasp slivers at a time–but it was _this_. _There. London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down…_

"You're a puzzle," she informed him, as coffee came and went.

"A muddle," he replied, grinning, and mentioned Jii-chan over. "But it will get better."

Two minutes later they were on the boulevard again, he helping her into her coat, she laughing at him and adding, "Maa, the perfect gentleman you are! Young men nowadays never forget their manners, do they?"

"Probably they do," he replied with a straight face. "I'm just weak-minded. True gentlemen always are. Protective streak a mile wide. Women and children first and everything." He looked down at her bare hands. "Why aren't you wearing any gloves? It's mid-November, d'you know?"

"For the single pleasure of having you lending yours to me."

He grinned at her. "Unfortunately I don't have any either. Must be our luck running out. This–" he grabbed her right hand and stuffed it down his coat pocket along with his– "is it alright?" There was something soft in the corner of his mouth, in his eyes.

"Yeah. Fine."

It was a beautiful day.

--

It wasn't for long. Down to the prison, they squatted under the outer wall, casting wary looks at the two gorilla-shaped guards that ferociously stood by the cell's first barred door. From afar, it looked like a perfectly regular bank complex.

"How did you even _escape_ that?" Aoko hissed from over Kaito's shoulder.

"I didn't," he said, laughter audible in his whisper. "I just told 'em I was hungry and they got compassionate and let me pass. They promised they'd keep my room free for me, aren't they kind? Don't tell Hakuba, though. He'd flip his shit."

She nudged him in the shoulder. "Be serious for a second."

"My dear… always," he retorted, and then did something with his hands and a pocket remote that caused the ape-descent guards to gasp, turn their heads, glance at each other, and run into the building through another door.

"What was tha–" –and he grabbed her hand again, broke into a dash across the yard, and skidded them both to a halt in front of the door. He fiddled with the lock rapidly, got it open despite all impossibilities in three seconds flat, pulled them both fluidly inside, and leant against it to shut, laughing.

Hakuba was not pleased.

"Do you realize what could have happened if you were caught, the both of you?" he scolded tartly, crossing and uncrossing his arms as he paced the cell. Kaito had coiled himself on the windowseat again. Aoko lifted hands in a peace offering.

"Hakuba-kun–"

"Nobody knows my face," Kaito piped in. "Anybody who saw us must have thought it was a perfectly standard date."

Aoko glared half-heartedly at him. "Don't you begin."

"I haven't even started."

Hakuba was starting to worry his lips again. "Obviously the two of you don't realize _at all_ what is at stake here. Honestly, you're a notorious thief _and_ his lawyer–is it normal that you should be acting like two lovesick high school students?"

"No," Aoko said.

"Yes," Kaito counterattacked. "By the way–before I forget–" he yanked his coat off the–coat stand, which hadn't been there any of the times before–and got out a small package that certainly had _not_ been there when Hakuba had ransacked those pockets for unknown weapons fifteen minutes before. "For Akako-san," he said to his jailer, grinned, and promptly fell into a post-lunch nap.

"It's no use," Aoko told Hakuba when they vacated the cell quietly enough to avoid waking him. "He'll do whatever he wants, no matter how much you or I shout."

"I know that," he replied, and shut the heavy door again. "I've been chasing him for nine long years, Aoko­–that's enough to know that nothing ever goes right or wrong with Kaitou KID, it just goes the way he wants." He breathed out in what was almost a sigh. "But it would _help_ if you didn't go and be stupid with him."

"It was just fun," Aoko protested, and then realized this sounded just like she was cautioning his actions. Which she _didn't_. She didn't.

Hakuba was running his hand in his hair again, a gesture he accomplished oftener and oftener these times. "Aoko, you're one of the saner persons I've met. You're–nothing like all those girls KID, or Kaito, has seduced all these times to get his point through." His hawk-like eyes fixed hers, pinned hers. "Don't become one of them."

She didn't like the turn the conversation was taking. "O-kay. Don't worry. How's Akako?"

The gold in her friend's eyes seemed to lighten up a bit. "Good. She's six months through now. Says she wants Lucifer to be godfather, but obviously that wouldn't work–" he made a wry face, and weighted Kaito's package in his hand.

"What's in there?"

"… from the shape of it, a rubber duck."

"Oh, dear," Aoko said, laughed, and left to raid her apartment for a nursery rhymes CD.

She found one after one hour of rummaging around, and plugged the phone off to avoid any Keiko-interruptions. She pushed _repeat_, then _skip_ until she reached track four, and slumped in her armchair, head leaning back against the cushion. A deep, rich man's voice filled the void of silence, and she closed her eyes, silently.

_London Bridge is falling down,_

_Falling down, falling down, _

_London Bridge is falling down,_

_My fair lady._

Yes, it was most definitely that. She wondered why Kaito had chosen it. Maybe he hadn't–maybe it was just one of these melodies which self-imposed themselves to one's mind and refused to leave for days–

_Take a key and lock her up, _

_Lock her up, lock her up, _

_Take a key and lock her up,_

_My fair lady._

–or maybe not. Despite the feminine pronoun, Kaito may have been feeling sympathetic, although _he_ could go and leave his prison as he wished. That– not again. She fished around for a few moments, but to no avail.

_How will we build it up, _

_Build it up, build it up,_

_How will we build it up,_

_My fair lady._

There were a few couplets down that talked about a prisoner and a woman trying to get him out of prison, weren't there? _Stole my watch and broke my chain…_ that _was_ accurate, if anything, to part of the truth.

_Build it up with gold and silver,_

_Gold and silver, gold and silver,_

_Build it up with gold and silver,_

_My fair lady._

Or were those alternative lyrics? She'd been pretty certain there had been something about _iron and steel will bend and bow _and… penny loaves? Yes, and something _else_ about a hundred pounds to set the prisoner free–

_Gold and silver I have none,_

_I have none, I have none,_

_Gold and silver I have none,_

_My fair lady._

Vaguely, she wondered why the fair lady wanted to set the prisoner free. If he'd stolen her watch, she'd only want to toss him in prison, right? Right. _Stole my watch and broke my chain_–what chain? Gold chains?

_Build it up with pins and needles,_

_Pins and needles, pins and needles,_

_Build it up with pins and needles,_

_My fair lady._

But pins and needles would never hold… pins and needles… somehow, it was as Kaito's prison, that too. Kaito who left it as he wished, and oh that feeling again… why? Left as he wished? Was that a clue, too? Was the song?

_Pins and needles bend and break,_

_Bend and break, bend and break,_

_Pins and needles bend and break,_

_My fair lady._

What had Hakuba meant when–_'I've been chasing him for nine long years, Aoko–that's enough to know that nothing ever goes right or wrong with Kaitou KID, it just goes the way he wants.'_ Were things going the way he wanted, even now?

_Build it up with wood and clay,_

_Wood and clay, wood and clay,_

_Build it up with wood and clay,_

_My fair lady._

Were they just doing everything he wanted–was he just laughing at them from his cell, at their firm belief that he'd never escape when he did everyday, that they had him in their grip when he was just ready to leave?

_Wood and clay will wash away,_

_Wash away, wash away,_

_Wood and clay will wash away,_

_My fair lady._

And even if that was so–what was there they could do? He was a level of reasoning higher than they were–Arsene Lupin or no. _Maybe I don't plan on attending my trial._ Of course not; that would have been stupid of him. He was a notorious thief with masses at his feet. Of course he didn't plan on staying in prison if he could help it. But she had been committing the fatal mistake of the lawyer–she'd started to see him as a person who laughed, ate and drank, felt as her, not as the thief–was that a twisted version of the Stockholm syndrome or something?

_Build it up with penny loaves,_

_Penny loaves, penny loaves,_

_Build it up with penny loaves,_

_My fair lady._

Aha, Aoko thought vaguely. I knew, I knew penny loaves came into it somewhere–_Penny loaves will tumble down, tumble down, tumble down–_and fell asleep to the bass voice of falling London Bridge.

She–dreamt that Kaito was standing in his cell and humming, then looking up at her and saying–and saying–wake up.

_Take the key and lock him up, _the singer was saying–how long had she been asleep? The room was dark and the curtains drawn. Only the greenish numbers of the CD reader were blinking, _repeat_, on her right, casting a winking sheen on the furniture of her crowded living-room.

_Take the key and lock him up,_

_My fair lady._

_What will it take to set him free,_

_Set him free, set him free…_

_What will it take to set him free?_

Hmm, Aoko thought, and fell asleep again.

--

The next morning the coffee machine decided to go on strike and there was a new message from KID in the _Torimitsu._

She read it, standing in front of the reluctantly-working coffee maker and wondering when he had had time to send it to the newspaper the day before. Before going to lunch? But the hours didn't match–Hakuba had said he'd left (or in any case the cell had been found empty) at twelve-thirty, and she'd met him on the boulevards at a quarter to one. Too short.

'_Dear, faithful readers of the Torimitsu,_

'_We are now only three weeks away from my long-awaited trial, and I am still trespassing on the kind hospitality of my caring guardians. Prison life is so eventful. When I cannot amuse myself with poking at my neighbours' cheeks, my lovely lawyer comes in and starts asking questions–to which I cannot, unfortunately answer quite deeply. I regret that.'_

You bet, Aoko fumed. You're having the laugh of your life.

'_I am sorry to understand that the prosecution is firmly convinced that my 'showing-off' in the papers and my announcing that I will not attend my trial are merely 'bluffing,' and only a way to cover up for the defence's lack of data. Inasmuch as I deeply respect your opinion, gentlemen, I beg to differ._

'_That you should attack _me_ is no news at all–not to me–and would provide you with good entertainment, and probably with good rehearsal for the trial, was it bound to take place (which it isn't). But I cannot allow–and I will not allow–that you should also be attacking, in the same newspaper, my guardians and lawyer._

_Hakuba Saguru is a devoted policeman whose ambition in life is to catch me and see me through to my trial. He has accomplished half of that schedule, and no doubt intends to carry it through. If not absolutely cool-minded, he is caring and determined (and his wife expects a baby, which I intend to shower with toys, as a respectable though unspoken godfather). He deserves, if anything, your respect, and what's more, your admiration._

_Nakamori Aoko is another business. As the daughter of the late and much-regretted Nakamori Ginzo-keibu, I have the highest regard for her. As a human being, I like her very much. (In many ways, she is like her father. Making fun of the Nakamori family is not something you should care to do, were you sensible. Unless you were me, as I have held, and flatter myself on still holding, a peculiar position with them.) She is, also, devoted to her work, and is intent on working this trial thing through. I wish you would not disturb her or her work with any of your ridiculous hypotheses._

_If, by any chance, you should not happen to agree with me on these terms, and should continue publishing those unacceptable letters in newspapers of notoriety much inferior to that of the _Torimitsu_, and if you are adamant on thinking I am merely bluffing, I should be delighted to show you in any way you think most impossible that I am very much not._

_With my kindest regards–'_

Again, there was no signature, only a grinning KID caricature in the corner.

Aoko transferred the coffee in a commuter mug, visited the prosecution quarters like a fury and demanded they never again publish any comments in the papers, then went frustratedly down to the prison and attended a morning tea party with Kaito and Hakuba.

The former of the two had a Mad Hatter hat on and swapped her strict lawyer attire into a blue Alice dress before she had time to speak; the latter was sitting at the table with quite real-looking bunny ears and was looking very carefully unfazed. Welcome to Looking-Glass world, Aoko thought, with a sinking feeling.

"What I don't understand," she explained away, while Kaito piled up scones and muffins in her teacup with a meticulous air, "no, no more, thank you–is why they even bother. I mean, I know they think they can sink our ship, but Kaitou KID is illustrious enough on his own that they shouldn't want to make any more publicity."

"Thank you," said Kaito, courteously.

"I think–" Hakuba was trying to tug his bunny ears off, "I think they want to counterpoint you. They try to affirm themselves–not in the wisest way, I should think, but really only one among the few. They can show off too, they say. KID is not the only cheeky guy."

Aoko stared at a muffin. "That's a preschool-kid attitude."

"Nobody said any of them were more than that. Or that _you_ are," Hakuba added, glaring at Kaito, who just grinned maddeningly, fully in character.

"But at least Kaito doesn't pretend he's anything else," Aoko said, still talking to the muffin. "And _they're_ supposed to be the hands of justice or whatever, not stupid kids in school recess. They're supposed to be the grown-ups. Or something." She watched Kaito's hand on the tablecloth, long, lean fingers tapping a lively rhythm near his teaspoon.

"… and what are _you_ supposed to be?" he asked, and there was something carefully shifting in his voice, as though testing an unknown ground.

"I–_you_ should tell me that, not I," Aoko snapped, at the muffin.

When she looked up, Kaito was smiling, and warmth furled in her chest like a purring cat.

Whereupon Hakuba was started up on Akako And The Baby, a topic which he could apparently dissert on for hours. Aoko listened to him patiently, drank tea, laughed, and did not jump when Kaito's knuckles brushed hers under the tablecloth.

"I still want you through the trial," she told him, later, when Hakuba was in the antechamber, rummaging around for papers he wanted to give her, and the door was only ajar to the cell. Kaito was leaning negligently against it, still grinning in his madish fashion.

"I know," he said, brushing aside a strand of black hair from her eyes. "You would."

"You're crazy," she informed him, laughing.

"The _world_ is crazy, beloved, not only I," was the arch reply, with something rather soft in the blue of the eyes.

--

The prosecution attacked again two days later.

The spirit of the letter sent to the newspaper ran along the lines of–_'this last, petulant letter of so-called Kaitou KID–for it is well understood between us that KID cannot have sent them, being in the depths of his cell, and it is therefore a prank from the defence to disconcert us–only shows to declare how right we were. Bluff we said it was, and bluff it is. Again, that's a nice thing to do for the thief to defend the lawyer! What more than this will suffice to show how unserious they all are about this business?_

_From our own sources, we are able to declare that while Hakuba Saguru might be a very devoted policeman, his having been chasing Kaitou KID for nine years will predispose him into prejudice, and while Nakamori Aoko might be the rightful daughter of old Nakamori-keibu, it does not mean that she is any more able than other, older, more experienced lawyers._

_In fact, it is in our right to declare that her researches have been much insufficient for such an important trial as this. As she is only a young woman–she is barely twenty-six–she might not grasp how important will be the issue of this trial, as Kaitou KID might be one of, or even THE greatest criminal of our times.'_

That's ridiculous, Aoko raged in her kitchen, burning her breakfast toasts. Kaito hasn't killed anyone. Every jewel he stole he gave back, and, if anything, they are better protected now than ever before. His greatest crime has been to escape justice and the police for twenty-six years–in his case, only nine. He is only so well-known because he is talented and likes showing-off…

Kaito, however, retaliated immediately, with flourishes of pretty talks and politeness.

'… _I can assure you, gentlemen, that it is the one and only Kaitou KID writing these letters, and no one else. Should you question my word again, I know not what the look-out on the public might be. You seem very imprudent._

'_Bluff it is not. I have said before, and I will repeat it again, that whatever pleases you as impossible you can ask me now, and I will have the great pleasure of ridiculing you all _now_, since my trial will have to be put off. I am certain every sensible man out there would agree with me. Only hurry and think; we haven't much time._

'_I will not even respond to your meaningless attacks on Hakuba Saguru and Nakamori Aoko, which appear to me as the mere insignificance of pointless arguments when everything else has failed. _

'_If this is the way you intend to tackle the trial, I might even start to consider attending to it–leaving, of course, as soon as it is over–just for the pleasure of seeing myself acquitted and your petty case neatly dislocated._

'_As it is, however, and my resolution being fixed to _not_ attend it, we shall have to confront each other on these rather more public grounds._

'_Yours truly….'_

(By this point, of course, everyone in the country was buying the two papers on a regular basis, and both parties involved were thoroughly enjoying themselves.)

'_Kaitou KID likes to joke,' _was the prosecution's next instalment. _'But even he, despite his escaping justice for twenty-six years, cannot, for all his love of gusto, manage to be in different places at the same time _now_, while in prison._

'_That is our defy, if it pleases you. If Kaitou KID manages to show himself in three or more different places at the same time, _without leaving his cell_, we will admit that as a defeat on our side. As, however, we know it to be impossible, phantom thief or no, we will await KID's excuses and decline of our proposition within the next three days.'_

Aoko went to the prison the day after that to talk to Kaito, but wasn't allowed in.

"He's sleeping," Hakuba, looking uncomfortable, said. "Has been for three days–ever since he published that last letter of his. I showed him the prosecution's defy, but he said he'd read it already and bid me to let him sleep."

"May I at least see him?"

Hakuba cast her a wary glance. "Aoko–"

"If only to check it _is_ him in this cell, and not some prank. I know you would never let Kaito out off your own accord, Hakuba-kun, but he may have fooled you. Let me pass, please."

His embarrassment increased, but only, it seemed, at her supposing he might be cheated on, and he held the door open for her. There was, however, nothing to see. Kaito was lying on his bunk with his face turned to the wall, and when she stepped closer he was deeply asleep.

And it _was_ him. Most definitely. She doubted anyone could copycat that wild hair falling on shivering cheekbones. If this wasn't Kaito, there was a serious problem with her perceptions–she, if anyone, should know. She'd spent two months studying him–so, so intently–now.

She thanked Hakuba, left the cell, and went home to read some more Lupin. By ten at night, she dropped her books and went to take a long, hot bath, hoping it might somehow manage to clear her brain.

'_Was I ever one to admit defeat?' _was Kaito's answer in the _Torimitsu _the next morning. _'I accept, gentlemen, with the greatest pleasure. It is too long since I have felt the bliss of meeting with the moon again._

'_I give you rendez-vous in three days' time–you will allow for a necessary time of preparation–at 8 p.m. I need not tell you where. You'll see well enough.'_

When Aoko returned to the prison the morning after _that_, Kaito was still sleeping.

Damn you, she fumed as she tore down the steps leading to the train station. Damn you. You'll never get anywhere near appearing in three different places at the same time by only sleeping all the damn time. Don't you see they only mean to trick you? Don't you see it's the only way they've got to bring us down before the trial?

Don't you see you're _not_ Lupin, damnit!

--

By seven-thirty two days later, about half the town was in the streets.

KID had not said where he'd appear, but he _had_ said he'd appear in different places all at once, so there were many chances one would just happen to be at the right place at the right time.

The prosecution had refused to say anything so far, not after some 'this will never work' comments after KID's letter three days before, and the defence had, to put it simply, vanished from her flat the same morning.

At one minute to eight, Hakuba Saguru, when called by the prefect of police, declared that the man he had arrested as Kaitou KID was currently in his cell, fully asleep.

When the clock tower marked eight and started to ring its sweet peal in the cold evening air, Kaitou KID appeared rapidly on a museum's roof, on a supermarket's roof, on the prison's roof, on the prosecution quarters' roof, and on the clock tower's spire itself.

The streets exploded in cheers.

At two minutes past eight, KID leaped easily down from the museum roof to one of the balconies, waved at the crowd, and disappeared in a swirl of his white cloak.

At three minutes past eight, KID sat down on the supermarket roof and started drinking tea and offering toasts to the moon. When the police squad reached the last floor and climbed up on the tiles, though, the kaitou had disappeared, and none could tell whither he had gone.

At four minutes past eight, KID played tag with his shadow on the prison roof, swept behind the tall rectangle of a dark chimney, and disappeared and never emerged again.

At five minutes past eight, KID unravelled a long '_Missed me, gents?'_ banner down the prosecution quarters' roof, burst out laughing as he jumped down it, and disappeared in the throng of pressing people.

At seven minutes past eight, Nakamori Aoko, lawyer for the defense, was seen to catch a red rose that had been floating down from the clock tower's spire since KID had disappeared from it in a puff of pink smoke one minute earlier.

At eight minutes past eight, end of the pandemonium.

(Only remained in the crowd's eyes flashing fireworks, exploding bunches of roses, juggling lights, and in the crowd's ears young peals of laughter.)

At ten minutes past eight, when called (again) by the crimson-faced prefect of police, Hakuba Saguru repeated his assertion according to which Kaitou KID was still sleeping in his cell, and was–wait–currently stirring and yawning.

All the witnesses declared the kaitou they had seen was the one and only Kaitou KID. The police squads which had been tricked several times over swore and cursed and went dispassionately to report to their superiors. The reporters of various newspapers, who had been hanging out at strategic places all over town, and had managed to take pictures of the different KIDs, returned to the motherhouse, thinking up headlines.

It turned out that all the lawyers and assistants for the prosecution had had their hair switched to a very… bright…to say the least… shade of pink.

People laughed, and went home.

--

"How did he do it?" Aoko asked Hakuba the next morning, sitting at the table in the antechamber. The half-brit inspector looked weary and strained, as though he had stayed up all night–he probably had.

"I don't know," he replied tiredly, rubbing his eyes. The cool neatness of his clothes and hair was by now far long gone. "All I know is that he _was_ in his cell at eight, and he stayed there all evening and all night, so far as I know. He was sleeping most of the time. He only woke up when my cell rang, and asked me to put it on vibration."

"Did he tell you anything about yesterday night's events?"

"Yeah…" he leaned his chin on his hand and yawned. "He grinned and said, 'Good, I'm glad it worked out–' and went back to sleep."

"He's sleeping right now," Aoko guessed.

"Hmmm."

She didn't ask to see him this time, and went home thinking it out. Lupin also had been deadly slept for the two weeks that had preceded his trial, but that had been a way to disguise himself, to change his face slowly, by degrees, so the man who'd entered the cell and the man who'd come out were nothing alike.

Lupin, for all his speeches, _had_ attended his trial, under the identity of someone else, had tricked every one, and got out laughing at his old nemesis. ('_And suddenly, in this silence, echoed a peal of laughter, but a joyful, happy laugh, the laugh of a child taken with a burst of laughter and unable to stop…')_

Kaito couldn't intend to do the same, though. Surely, surely, she couldn't be the only one who'd read Leblanc, who'd see through the prank. Hakuba had, for one thing, and probably the prosecution too. He'd never get away with that. (_… stared at him, deeply, violently, more sharply even than he had stared at him at court, and in truth that wasn't the man he saw. It was the man, but at the same time the other, the true one.)_

But then what? she no longer believed it was bluff. He had a–plan, plot, whatever. He said he wouldn't attend his trial, and whether or not he would in the end, there was a reason for his saying it. A reason.

_(…and you never thought, 'if Arsene Lupin is shouting about that he'll break free from prison, it means he has reason to shout'…)_

Stop it, she thought. Not because Lupin did things one way meant Kaito would do the same. It simply meant he looked up at him as a model–a master–someone whose example to follow–but Kaito had his own persona, his own imagination. If anything, he'd come up with something even more twisted than Lupin to get out–something that would phase the world.

… still.

(_…and it were the other man's eyes, the other man's mouth, it was, above all, his keen, lively expression, mocking and wry, so clear, so young…)_

A week went on.

Kaito slept.

The only time he wasn't asleep when Aoko came to visit him there were hardly three weeks left before the trial, and he was just awaking. Aoko closed the door softly behind her, and watched him stretch and yawn, grinning sheepishly at her.

"Slept well?"

"Pretty well."

She sat down at the table and looked up at him, brow furrowed in concern. "Listen. I really need more data for the trial. As such, it's pretty certain we'll lose–or at least lose more to them than we should. I've got practically nothing about–"

"That's not true," he said. "You've been working for weeks–meeting with witnesses, attending councils, studying old cases. You're a very self-conscious person," he added, with a smile that unnerved her.

"I've got nothing about _you_," she said angrily. "I don't even know if I should present you as a justice champion or a madman–"

"Both."

"I'm not joking, Kaito."

"Neither am I. I've given you all the data I could–all the data you needed, anyway. You don't need me anymore," he plopped down on his bunk again and glanced up at her. His lips were twitching. "You can work it out on your own now."

"… that's your answer?" She stood, thin-lipped, glaring.

"My final word. Go home, Aoko."

She went home, feeling ridiculously angry and uneasy with everything. She sat at her computer, staring at the blinking green screen for long minutes, just trying to understand how she had gotten there in the first place. Screw Kaito. Screw KID. Screw Lupin.

They could all go to hell.

The days wore on.

The prosecution tried to prove it hadn't been KID at all, encountered masses of disapproving fans, shut up, and decided to go on attacking Aoko's work and mocking KID's assurances that he wouldn't attend his trial instead. Letters were sent to the newspapers all over again, but were never responded.

And still Kaito slept.

Aoko met witnesses, made appointments, had long discussions with police officers who'd worked with her father, reported it all to Hakuba and asked him a few questions, and never tried to see Kaito. They'd have to meet again soon enough.

And still Kaito slept.

The newspapers indulged themselves with bold, catchy headlines and counted down the days until the trial, readers gasped over the clippings in the train, fangirls giggled in high school classes, Keiko's KID Fan Club sent prank letters to the prefect of police threatening to make things explode if their beloved Kaitou KID wasn't discharged.

And still Kaito slept.

The world turned on, the sun rose and set, so did moons and tides, and the trial day approached.

Kaito slept on.

(And, a week before the trial, a gentleman showed up at the prosecution's offices, asked for the Kaitou KID trial lawyer, tossed a card in his face, and walked quickly away. On the card, those words were inscribed–

'Kaitou KID always keeps his word.')

--

A week before the trial, Aoko returned to the prison and found Hakuba pacing the antechamber back and forth.

"… let me guess."

"He's gone again," he hissed, running his hand in his hair in a gesture that had, over the weeks, become intrusively familiar. "He left not an hour ago. Don't let them know," he added, with a quick nod at the closed door behind which the two guards were silently still. "They'd freak out if they knew it's not the first time."

She watched his quick steps, to and fro from the table to the window and back again, cell door, wall, wall, wall, table, cell door, wall, window, wall, wall, cell door. It made her feel like a caged animal.

He stopped suddenly. "When you met him outside the other day–" a vague gesture towards the barred door, "–where was it?"

"… at the terrace of a restaurant on the boulevard," she said, gingerly. "He can't be gone too long, can he?"

"Lord knows," he retorted sullenly, with a deprecating shrug. "With Kaito–Lords knows. The first time he was gone an hour, but I freaked out. The second, he was gone half a day. After that it varied. The day you came back with him he'd been gone three hours at most."

"Was he," Aoko murmured, and sat down, fingertips tracing idle patterns on the table's light brown wood. Something felt very wrong–something again. She looked at the barred window, and her stomach clenched with–something. "Mind if I wait?"

"Not at all," was the rather short answer, and he took up the pacing again.

The wait settled on. After half an hour Hakuba switched on the radio and sat across from her, but even so he was fidgeting anxiously. His mouth had a nervous, irritated twitch to it. Aoko closed her eyes, breathing in. Out, listening to the crackled voice of the radio speaker.

'…_the much-awaited trial beginning in a week now…'_

In. Hold. Out. Hold. In.

'… _still wondering whether KID will or not fulfil his promise_ _to not attend his trial–all doubts are permitted towards this rather extraordinary assumption. We can assure our listeners that the thief is under permanent guard and on no account permitted to come out–'_

Hakuba snorted. "Right."

Aoko almost smiled.

An hour. _'… the prosecution lawyer has accused KID of "meddling with the general opinion…"'_

He certainly had. With the general opinion, with Hakuba, with herself. Falling down with London Bridge and Arsene Lupin, clues and clues and clues to something out of reach–Kaito… _he was the best man that ever was._

What did it mean? she thought, breathing in, softly. What did you mean?

Maybe it was just another riddle without heads nor tail, maybe… maybe not. She could see words defiling under her closed eyelids, blinking, blinking words of bright green on a black screen, casting a vague sheen on the furniture of her…

In. Out. In. Out. In.

'… _the Kaitou KID fan club has stricken again…'_

Out.

'… _lawyer for the defence, Nakamori…'_

Out.

'… _has declared…'_

Out.

'… _infernal trickster…'_

Out.

'… _we have asked the prefect of police after KID's situation but an hour ago. We can assure our listeners that he is under good survey by the well-known inspector Hakuba Saguru, who has assured his capture. The prefect of police can, surely, be relied upon, hardly a week before the beginning of the trial…'_

Out. Out. Out. Out!

Do not await news of my evasion. It is probable that the KID Task Force (how delightful it is to have one's own Task Force!) will never admit to having let me go until the very last moment, when they no longer have any chance of catching me again before the trials begins.

Who had said that again?

She opened her eyes again. The night was falling outside the window–a dark blue that darkened still–and Hakuba had gone to sleep on the table, head pillowed in his gathered arms. Let him. He needed the rest anyway.

She looked into the dusk sky, the thin blacks clouds that coiled together like lace. There was something growing in her throat, like a bubble of joy that had been soaked with tears.

She stood, slowly–Kami, her muscles were stiff–scribbled a note on a piece of paper for Hakuba when he woke up, and went up. She felt eerily calm. Outside, the sky was a glorious sea of dark blue and bright gold, hurting the eyes and outlining her shadow on the sidewalk as she walked home.

_(…and you never thought, 'if Arsene Lupin is shouting about that he'll break free from prison, it means he has reason to shout'…)_

--

First thing she did was fill the bathtub. (It seemed that bathing was the only thing that relaxed her these days.) She poured it hot, and slipping in while some cooler water was trickling in, she stared at the ceiling, hands behind her head, and tried to think it out.

Kaito was never coming back, that was a fact. She could see it now–so simple from the start, and yet so twisted, relying mostly on their subconscious–just like Lupin–just like Lupin…

There had been a reason in everything he'd done, really–for acting like a childish clown, for sending letters to the papers, for escaping now and then and always coming back… he'd waited, patiently, cautiously, until their attention relaxed, until they started to see him as a human being, rather a ridiculous one, someone that was completely different from the phantom thief they had both sought out so many years in the past.

They had taken for granted–like the fools with feelings and trust they were–his smiles and his jokes, taken for granted that he wouldn't hurt them, taken for granted that he _would always come back_. Like a tamed beast. Like a nice doggie.

The beast wasn't tamed after all, never really. So he'd waited, patiently, cautiously, until their watch was asleep, with magic tricks and hollow knives and sensational gusto. He'd gotten them used to a routine, to a steady tedium, and given them to believe that the lie of a life they'd created for him was real, was true.

But it wasn't. It wasn't.

Because finally, finally, one week before the trial–today–he'd gotten his last laugh, had probably shrugged, and left. And left.

_What's the prisoner done to you,_

_Done to you, done to you?_

_What's the prisoner done to you,_

_My fair lady?_

She had been wrong about this song. It wasn't a simple, childish nursery rhythm–a play of infinitely repeated arches of arms and arms, the pace quickening as they passed–pass, and all's well–escaped, pace speeding up until the arches fell down and–caught.

It spoke of hidden treasures, of the strangest love and the truest hate, of corruption, of giving, giving, giving everything–and betrayal, ineluctable in the end.

It was a song of magic also–bridges crossed and falling down, repaired through the night, holding prisoners, bridges of gold and silver, of pins and needles, wood and clay, sticks and bones, iron and steel, penny loaves–wait. Magic?

She surfaced from underneath the water–kami, she hadn't even noticed she'd gone under–and stared at the taps, trying to recover the sudden recognition that had swept through her. Magic. A correlation with magic. Kaito was…

A magician. Above all, before he was even a thief–a magician.

'… _the infernal trickster…'_

And what else? _'The best man that ever was.' 'I have a mother.' 'When my father died–I was hardly ten back then–' 'Don't you see? It all fits.' 'We're the same age.' 'It runs in the blood.' 'Shouldn't you be asking why I became KID in the first place?' 'The one who taught me everything–' '… he died.' _ Oh, gods.

She got out of her bath, splashing water all over the tiles and hardly caring. Her hair was dripping. She tied it in a loose knot, pulled on her bathrobe, and ran into the living room, switching on her computer. It was a far cry–more than that, even–but it might be worth it.

Quickly, quickly­–load, damn you!

But faced with the blank research page, she was frozen.

After a minute she typed in _famous_ _magician._ It came up with thousands of pages. She ran through a few, but stopped–she would never get to anything with this. _Deceased famous magician._ Nope. Even worse. She went to _narrow the results._

Let's see. Famous–magician–deceased–sixteen years ago, at least–family man–

Three pages only came on. One was an ad for resurrecting the cherished dead–_right–_another was entitled, _The last magician of the century. _Underneath was written, in smaller type–_the Ultimate Kuroba Touichi Page. _

Might as well. As the page switched, she was met by the sight of wild black hair, a cheeky smile, and blue eyes that were all too familiar. Had it not been for the moustache, and the obvious extra years, it might have been–the splitting image.

Kaito, she thought, and then–_Oh, gods._

She skipped to _His Life_ with her heart in her mouth. _Kuroba Touichi, Last Magician Of the Century, born in, educated at, worked for, favourite tricks, died on stage, sixteen years ago, by accident. The circumstances have not yet been completely cleared… _there was a _Family_ link at the bottom of the page.

Wife - Kuroba Hiromi, forty-five-years-old.

Single Child - Kuroba Kaito, twenty-six-years-old.

There were photos, also.

--

Outside the night was dark and sharp and bit at her bare hands. The boulevards' lights were all on, restaurants' terraces after restaurants' terraces in quick succession. Couples, at the table, giving puzzled glances to the woman who ran. Families. Groups.

The French restaurant was magnificent, old, glowing lamps on polished brown tables, coat-tailed waiters and elaborate silver settings. Aoko stepped in breathless and was met immediately with an ancient, wrinkled beam.

"Nakamori Aoko-san. I was waiting for you."

The old man–Jii-chan–led her to the side of the room, avoiding the stares that followed the young, dishevelled woman–strangely familiar, as though she'd been in the papers lately, but they couldn't say _where_. Aoko caught her breath, sitting on the chair he indicated and taking the menu he swept out of his sleeve–just for show, she suspected.

"It was you," she panted. "It was you who sent the letters. He gave them to you."

He dipped his head, less in shame than in serious but unabashed admittance.

"Then you know where he is," she gasped, just soft enough that nobody heard her too loud. "You probably helped him out of prison–" here her voice dropped to hushed tones, "–you can tell me where he is–"

"Aoko-san, why would I tell you that?" he asked, in a gentle tenor. "Do you want to get him back to prison?"

"No!" she exclaimed, then recoiled. "I–" Wouldn't she? Would she, really? "I don't know," she finished miserably. "I just–I just want to see him. Talk to him."

He shook his head, and her heart sank. "Aoko-san, I cannot tell you where he is. He is–he _has_ come to see me this afternoon. It was, however, to tell me he was leaving the country tomorrow," he stopped.

"Where to?" Her lips were dry as paper.

"… Europe, probably. He has a flat in London and another in Paris. Both legacies from his father's," he added, with a reminiscent smile.

It was you, realized Aoko. You were Kuroba Touchi's old assistant–she remembered him from one of the site's photos–and when he died, you set up this restaurant as a cover for Kaitou KID. For Kaito, when he understood who his father had been.

And he had–nine years ago, hardly seventeen–and taken up the job.

"The young master never regretted anything," Jii-chan was saying, and Aoko needed a second to understand he was talking about Kaito. "He isn't a very talkative person in his way–" (and no, he wasn't, despite all his infernal blabber) "–but he has told me that, often. He never regretted anything about what and who he was. He said the only thing he wished he could have prevented was that a daughter was separated from her father."

Aoko nodded bleakly.

"I know you are inclined to judge him severely now, Aoko-san, but if you solely knew–"

"–what?"

He looked embarrassed. "It is not my secret to tell. I know but a small part of it. Only the young master knows the whole truth; however…" his tired eyes, sharper than they looked, closed upon hers and pinned them there, "I have felt for a long time that he needed someone whom to share that burden with."

I'm not that person, Aoko wanted to say, but instead she nodded again and went home.

Europe. Yes, it was logical enough. One was glad that, at least, one's faculty of thinking rationally was not yet withered. He wouldn't stay in the country after his arrest–at least not for some time. A few months. Maybe a few years. And then what?

The sky was a dark purple now, all stars rubbed out by the city's lights. The moon, not half-full, was holding court among a veil of smoky clouds, its light not as silvery as the poets said, far away and subdued.

Kaito preferred full moons, she knew. But she liked this moon, incomplete and muted, wavering in a sky too dark and too wide.

Lupin, too, had liked full moons. His own thefts–not as cheery and people-gathering as Kaito's, but insolent in their easiness–happened, oftentimes, by the light of the moon. Was that a characteristic of thieves, then–they liked nights and moonshines, liked to merge themselves in shades. It was clichéd, but it was true.

Lupin… it runs in the blood, Kaito had said. He knew that, Kuroba Touchi being dead. Lupin's son–twenty-five years after the grand robber's first adventure–had become a thief, as well–a honest one, granted, and no more than once, and his father had, unbeknownst to him, saved him from prison.

And that, too, meant something. She sought it out in her brain, walking up the stairs to her flat–elevator stuck, as always–family. Lupin and his son. Kuroba Touichi and Kaito. Her father and her. There was a correlation there–not of the 'fated to do this' kind, which was an image, but–

She opened her door and closed it behind her, frowning still over her discovery. Well–no, it wasn't. Not fate but–duty. Duty to–something. Something greater, truer than… something… what?

And why did London Bridge is Falling Down fit in all this, too? Why did it somehow, somehow seem to be the answer to it all? Why did Lupin?

What did the song and the book had in common–man-made? Artificial? Wait. Man-made. Hand-made. (She was nearly there, staring unseeingly at the dark wall, trying to realize.) Why did one write songs and books?

Why did Lupin's books enchant generation after generation, thieves' sons and officers' daughters alike?

Why was London Bridge still a well-loved nursery rhythm, century after century, and did children still sing it and play it like their ancient counterparts from two hundred years back had before them?

Because–and the truth swooped down on her like a shivering bird, just flowing out of its nest–they were symbols.

And so was Lupin, and the song, and Kaito, and his father, and KID. All of them, symbols of something inaccessible, symbols of daydreams and nightdreams and impossible things–things that people knew could never happen but believed in nonetheless.

Things like an unmatchable thief, seducing woman after woman–and yet, every time, loving them truly, sincerely, absolutely–stealing necklaces at age six, arresting robbers and murderers, building an empire in North Africa, and then coming home to family, and never quite dying–

Things like falling bridges–and symbol of that, bridges and bridges between hearts, arches and arches that could be shattered a thousand times and be built up a thousand times again, symbols of a feeling that couldn't be quite understood, that was too wide and dark and intense to be called love, too beautiful and terrifying to be called hate, too strange to be called otherwise–

Things like another unmatchable thief, real and unreal at the same time, living a life of his own and a life that belonged to someone dead for years, but keeping the mask on, keeping the smile, keeping the job for some reason that was probably surreal and absurd but keeping on for the beauty of the thing–

(And her father had understood that, too–unconsciously, maybe–had understood that the symbol needed some continuing on despite all odds. Understood that there were too sides to it–the thief, and the policeman. The prisoner, and the lawyer. Two sides of the same coin, all things considered…)

Duty to this, then–_I will not attend my trial _and _It all fits_–continuing on.

"It's like walking on a tightrope," Kaito had said. "You feel the wind going by, and you never know if and when you're going to fall. The adrenaline surges up, and it's an addictive feeling, really. You have to take every minute step very carefully and yet make it look like it's so easy anyone could do it…take this and say it at the trial. You'll see they'll be so fascinated they'll acquit me without a second thought."

(And it hadn't meant, like she had thought, that he believed the jury would be fascinated like rabbits by a snake, but simply that people needed dreams to live on.)

And he, like his father, like hers, like Lupin, like Leblanc, like the first children who had sung London Bridge is Falling Down and those who still did, like the fair lady and the prisoner, were dreammakers in the end. They lived in another part of a reality–one made of tricks and ropes, and never so true as the one they had come from, but one whose presence was needed–was necessary–compulsory.

She was like them, then–like the children who sang those songs, like the people who needed dreams. She had needed them from the day she had read Lupin for the first time (and before, but that was too old to remember), had met Kaito, had started to understand. She was like them…

(… the same scared, shivering child, clutching on these dreams for reassurance, clutching on everything she couldn't understand against everything she could, everything so wide and large and frightening…)

… who was she, really, to try and stop the process, when she needed it that much?

(Away everyone and everybody, she could allow herself to be selfish just this once.)

--

She had stayed up late, cuddled up in an armchair until her eyelids had drooped on their own. When the doorbell rang­–a shrilling, too-loud drill in her sleep-dizzy state–she wondered (briefly) what she was doing there.

She went to answer it, heedless of her crumpled clothes and messy hair, just casting a weary look at the corridor's clock–it was hardly eight in the morning. Whoever it was out there better have a good reason for waking her up.

She was greeted by a large bouquet of roses being handed to her as soon as she opened the door.

"Morning!" said the young delivery man, brightly. "Roses for Nakamori Aoko, that is you, yes?"

She stared down at them, still rather sleepy, trying to make the association. Roses connected with–what. Something or someone important. "I didn't order any roses," she said, miserably, but took the bouquet anyway.

"It's a present," the young man said, his cap's brim pushed way down on his eyes. "All paid for. Tip too. Just enjoy them. Beautiful, aren't they?"

"Very," Aoko said, then looked up suspiciously. This grin looked _way_ too familiar. "Present from who?"

… and then he was close, too close, long fingers working their way around her face, tangling in black strands of hair. "From someone who hopes you'll be waiting for him," he whispered, and kissed her. He tasted like the roses' perfume, sweet and red and eluding.

Then he was away, already on the other side of the landing, taking off his cap and bowing out. "Enjoy the beautiful day, my fair lady."

He laughed and was gone, leaving Aoko to stand on the doorstep with the roses cradled in her arms and the taste of them still lingering on her lips. She shook her head (_he's incurable, isn't he)_ and got in to change and switch on the coffee machine. She needed to get down to the prison before the prosecution quarters started to collapse down on themselves.

--

(The prosecution, in fact, refused the announcement of Kaitou KID unspectacular escape until the trial day, when there was no prisoner to try. They then proceeded to accuse Hakuba, Aoko, and the prefect of police of having a hand in the business until a sharp-written letter in the _Torimitsu_, sent by a well-known detective by the name of Kudo Shinichi, was enough to shut them all up.

Things however did not get better. Hakuba and the guards all got a blame for letting the prisoner escape–though, the prefect of police amended, no one could have expected them to stop him when he'd set his mind on it–and newspaper reporters latched onto the case like birds of prey.

People pretended they were Kaitou KID in disguise, others declared they had met him in Vienna, L.A., Moscow, and Hong-Kong, fangirls fangasmed over pictures of old heists, and the Kaitou KID Fan Club started a campaign for the sanctification of their idol.

Aoko received letters from annoyed lawyers who announced they would have done a much better job than she, day-long phone calls from an overexcited Keiko, and unsigned postcards from various European cities; and went several times to eat at Jii-chan's place along with Hakuba and his wife until the memorable dinner when Akako went into labour.

The delivery lasted all night and there were no complications–apart from the baby having red eyes when he opened them, but Akako treated that like a trivial matter ('I've get purple hair, and no one ever bothered'), and Hakuba looked wearily, genuinely happy, so Aoko smiled, hugged them both, and left them some peace.

The sky outside was blue and windy, cold. It was early yet. She walked home.)

--

("Need a lift, fair lady?"

When she turned, it was to the open door of a humming cab, and the goofy smile and Cockney accents of a driver leaning out to speak to her. If she bent a little, she'd see the amused blue of the eyes and the wildness of black hair under the regular aquamarine cap.

"Depends." She laid a casual hand on the open door, trying to decipher the warmth _slow_ that furled and unfurled in her chest. "Where to?"

"To the end of the world, if my lady doth wish it so," he replied with a dramatic gesture, and honked the horn twice for good measure and emphasis. "And beyond." He peered curiously at her from under the brim of his cap. "Does my lady wish it so?" He'd dropped the Cockney accent now, and his voice was as genuine as it could–be expected to–be.

And beyond, she thought. "London bridge will probably fall down on us."

He gave the horn a light-hearted punch, and turned the ignition key, making the car roar softly, like a sleepy beast. "We'll risk that." –and grinned, and the warmth spread and settled in her chest until she broke into a smile, too, and leaned in.

"Let's."

(That day was a glorious day, all sunshine falling like a shower of gold, as they passed London Bridge and fell down with it in a sky of a thousand blues.))

--

**-completely exhausted- we… have reached… the end. You still alive?**

**Many thanks for reading, everyone. And special thanks (and lots of duckie-shaped cookies) to ****butterfly-chan****, my awesome friend, who started all this without even knowing it, and ****ami-chan****, who got me stuck on Lupin all over again and has the patience of an angel. I luv ya, girls. –glomps–**

**Now, gents, I have an announcement to make. Christmas is now coming **_**fast**_**, and that deserves a little celebration, ne? So there is my present to you all–give me a prompt, and I'll write a drabble for it. No time limit, no restrictions, anyone can ask. Prompts can be anything–a random sentence you just thought up, a few words, a theme, a song you like, a line out of a book, anything.**

**And if you'd rather have angst, fluff, or something specifically Christmas-related, you'd better tell me, too. Same if you prefer canon-verse, or Au-verse, or don't care either way.**

**I'll post the bunch of 'em on Christmas Eve (though what with the different time zones, I guess some of you will read it on the 25****th****). Now then. Cookies?**


	12. And Now For More Dismayed Lights

**A/N: So I read a great letter!fic a few days back. And I don't think this kind of scheme has ever been explored in the DC fandom (except Katie-chan a few days ago, I SWEAR our muses are up to something sinister, it can't all be coincidence), so I thought I'd do it–and then it meddled with another fic idea, the reunion of which somehow twined itself into this. **

**Warnings–canon characters, yay. (I'm becoming so used to writing AUs I actually have to put in a warning about this not being one… -is hopeless-) Songfic. (It's been a while, no?) Er. Anything else?**

**Disclaimer–I don't own MK. Gosho Aoyama does. I don't own 'Your Guardian Angel' either. Red Jumpsuit Apparatus does. Don't shoot the respectful fanfic writer.**

**-**

**And Now For More Dismantled Lights**

**-**

"I'm going to England this summer," Kaito said one day, completely out of the blue. Outside, in the college yard, cherry blossoms were going on their painstaking way to withering.

"Oh," said Aoko, and then, "How long?" She carefully slid a finished form inside a plastic sheet and closed the folder she'd been filing with a _clap_. They'd been stuck in the student council room after student council monthly meeting to try and classify their respective first term notes.

Kaito stood, picked up the folders, and slipped them back on their matching shelves. He came back down with two others. "Three months."

"What about college? How many more are there of these? We can't have filled so many of them in barely three months."

"Two. Not counting those, though. I'll be back for September. A friend of my dad's invited me. Magician. He's great. His usual assistant is on maternity break, so he wants me to replace her during his summer shows."

"But that's great, isn't it? Oh, thanks." She took the soda can he was handing her and applied it to her forehead. It was hot, probably not as hot as summer would be come spring to pass, but yet too hot for May.

"Yeah. You think you can't bear with me so long?" he teased, sitting back down.

Aoko gave him a pointed look. "I only wish you'd stay longer. No Kaito, no teasing, no flipping skirts, my smug grins, no mop chases–"

"No fun," Kaito cut in, and this time his grin didn't quite reach his eyes, and Aoko had come to be able to read him a little too well by now. "It's been a while since we did one of those. Your college skirt is too long for flipping now. As for smug grins, I'm sure Hakuba will willingly give you his share of those–"

Aoko thwacked him with one of the folders. "Will you shut up?"

He whined, and she laughed, and for a minute more everything was back to normal.

Outside, the cherry blossoms kept withering in the delicate pink death that cherry blossoms generally undergo, and summer heat, unbeknownst as of yet in its slow settling in, crept in silently, quietly.

_When I see your smile_

_Tears run down my face I can't replace_

She came to see him off at the airport.

"I think I didn't believe you'd come," he said as they headed through the throng toward Boarding Gate–08. "It's hardly seven in the morning. You usually don't get up so early–even to get to college on time."

Aoko snorted. "Right. My best friend leaves for a three-month stay in England and I'm supposed to stay in bed." She smacked him on the arm. "Silly. Is it just you or the airport in general smelling alcohol?"

"What? Oh, yeah–the guys from college set up a bachelor's party for me last night–except of course I'm not getting married, but. I think I've drunk a little over the top." He looked unabashed and vaguely fond. Aoko eyed him suspiciously, looking for signs that would indicate sudden swooning or regular insanity, but he was grinning. Inanely. As per usual.

"Did you sleep at all?"

"Not much," he admitted ruefully. "I'll pick up on that on the plane. It's a twelve-hour flight over Asia–it'll be ten in the morning when I'll get there this evening. I'll write to you."

"Sure," Aoko said absently. "I would've liked to see you drunk. Must have been fun to witness."

"Must have," Kaito repeated, and then laughed. His hand had emigrated, sometime during the way, over to her forearm, and was ostensibly much disinclined to move. About twenty people were waiting with them before the gate; most of them were already queuing to board, passports out. A man in a bowler was purchasing a sports magazine and a sack of chocolates at the store nearby.

"Alcohol is not all bad," Kaito was prattling on, apparently not quite sober. His hand had slid down to her wrist and lean fingers were flexing around it, thumb grazing inattentively over the sensitive skin. "It lowers our inhibitions, teaches us to reconsider–"

"_Passengers for the 514 Flight to London are welcome to board,"_ announced the poised voice of the young woman at the boarding gate counter, in not-quite sync with its crackling counterpart over the loudspeaker.

"–and compels us to do what we wouldn't dare do otherwise," Kaito went on unheedingly.

"That's your flight," Aoko remarked.

"Aoko."

"Yeah?"

(This was what this kiss was like: warm and drenched in the bitter taste of liquor chocolate in the golden dawn light that flooded in through the tall glass airport wall.)

Then it was gone, and Kaito was hoisting his bag on his shoulder and strolling over to the queue, calling over his shoulder, "I'll write you. See ya."

Aoko didn't leave the airport terminal till the green, blinking letters clicked from _FLIGHT-514 BOARDING_ to _FLIGHT-514 TAKE OFF. _It was not cold outside, despite the early hour; it was hot inside the train home. The sunlight hit the glass like white-hot iron.

_And now that I'm stronger I've figured out_

_How this world turns cold–_

_Dear Aoko,_

_I've arrived yesterday, so not much to say yet. London looks great–crowded, but great. I'll try to find something for you there before I come back. Anything you'd like?_

_Dad's friend is a dear old bird, with a huge wife who served me the biggest breakfast of my life this morning. They're also welcoming their grandson and granddaughter for a few weeks–the parents being gone to Tahiti or wherever–and they're awesome. They're twins of ten and they love magic tricks to bits. They almost already know all the regular ones._

_How's Tokyo? The weather here is all right–no morning fog over the Thames that I could see, or maybe I wasn't up early enough–or is it because it's summer? I watched the weather report for Japan at noon, though, and they say you're going head-on into a heatwave. But you probably already know that._

_Are you going to cram school this year?_

_Johnson-san (that's Dad's friend. I think I mentioned it before but now I'm not so sure) is taking me to the hall where he's producing himself tomorrow. He's on a week break right now, but he wants me to practise his tricks. Says he won't saw me in two yet though. Too bad. I've always wanted to try that. I could try it on you when I come back._

_Miss me yet?_

–_Kaito_

_and it breaks through my soul_

_And I know I'll find..._

_Kaito, you moronic imbecile._

_You DO NOT send me a letter if you have nothing to say. You've hardly been in London two days and you already think of coming back–you do know you'll be there three months, right? Or did you skip that too?_

_I'm glad you could find a nice family to bear with you. They'll probably be fed up by the end of the week, so try not to be your eccentric usual self. You'll scare off the children. I'm glad there are some, though–you've always liked them, and they'll babysit you better than any adult ever could. As for breakfast, you've always been a gourmet. What's it, bacon and eggs, or plain traditional porridge?_

_It's blindingly hot here, as you've been kind enough as to inquire after. And yes, I'm going to cram school. SHUT UP._

_Hakuba said to send his regards in case you wrote (he looked like he doubted it. What did you two do, make a bet over that? Is that why you're writing me?) so here goes. The Hakuba regards, full with sealed envelope and family crest. I hope you enjoy it. He certainly put much thought in it, which in itself is highly suspicious._

_I'm glad you like your dad's friend. He sounds like a nice person, caring enough to get a week break to make sure you can practice. Not that you need it though. You'll probably learn the knack of those tricks in a span of five minutes._

_AND NO. You won't. So don't even mention it. Think about avoiding my mop before you start running after me with a saw, you ass._

_Enjoy your stay. And if you must write to me, at least find something to say._

_(And I don't. Sorry to disappoint.)_

–_Aoko_

_PS. Do you really–never mind. You're doing this on purpose, don't you?_

_deep inside me, I can be the one_

_Dear Aoko,_

_I DO so have things to say. And I wasn't thinking of coming back–London is too much fun to want to leave it after hardly a week. I was thinking of you. _

_Thank the kind thinker._

_Breakfast is whatever we want–cereal or toast or coffee or chocolate or eggs or bacon or porridge or everything all at once. Everything's on the table by eight o' clock. I think they're stuffing me to eat me._

_The kids are great. They've taken me all over London, and I'm trying to teach them some Japanese. They know lots of magic tricks, so we can practise together–I don't think they'd be able to babysit me, though. You'd do that better, I think. By the way, I told them about you–they wanted to know who I was writing to. They asked if you were my girlfriend._

_Johnson-san is a very kind man. His tricks were rather easy. He's doing all the difficult stuff, so I just get to stand by most of the time. He's also a very good teacher. It reminds me of dad's little lessons he gave us when we were eight or so–remember? You liked juggling, come to think of it. That's odd. I never saw you juggling again since dad's death. _

_We're beginning tomorrow. First show of the season. I don't know if it'll be recorded on tape–if it is, I'll buy one for you to see when I come home. I do appreciate the compliment, by the way. I believe magic tricks are the only reason you bear with me._

_Tell Hakuba I say hello. And no, there was no bet between us, so that's most certainly _not_ why I'm writing you. Has he gone and told you that?_

_Too bad. I already bought the saw. Now I need a cardboard box. Those big size ones._

_(You wound me, Aoko. My heart bleeds. I do miss you.)_

–_Kaito_

_PS. Yes. I do. And yes. I am._

_I will never let you fall_

_I'll stand up with you forever_

_Dear Kaito,_

_You are very kind. I appreciate the thoughts and am reverently thankful to your lordship. _Honestly.

_It doesn't matter much that they want to stuff you–you stuff yourself well enough. I seem to remember a certain McBurger incident–when the fast food service nearly went bankrupt thanks to your appetite. I'm sure you remember it too._

_WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN TELLING THOSE KIDS. They are still innocent and pure. Do not give them ideas. What on earth have you told them about me that they should believe you're my boyfriend? I don't even want to imagine what your perverted mind might have come up with. What did you answer anyways?_

_I remember juggling with your father. I liked it very much. But after your dad died–well, I thought it might be better if I didn't remind you of him too often. You stopped doing magic yourself for a full year. And then when it seemed safe to do it again, well, I'd lost the knack. I never tried again. I'm glad you can remember it without overmuch pain, now–Johnson-san must be a very good teacher, if he manages to remind you of all this. Tell him I say hello, if he wonders who you're writing to._

_(Are you actually writing to someone else than me?)_

_I wish you luck. I hope it goes well, and I wish I could see it myself. Try and get someone to tape it so we might see it together when you come home. I mean. Back to Japan. Stop messing with my brain, Kaito, you jerk._

_Hakuba-kun didn't tell me the two of you had bet you could write to me over the summer. I came to that conclusion on my own. I have a brain, THANK YOU. But if it's not true, then it doesn't matter._

_That said, I don't see him much. He's passing his exams to enter the police. What with Akako-chan gone to Switzerland and Keiko-chan with her boyfriend in Hokkaido, it's gotten rather glum around here. The people over at my cram school are nice, but they lack–bounciness. Or something._

_Good luck,_

–_Aoko._

_PS. YOU. SHUT UP._

_I'll be there for you through it all_

_Even if saving you sends me to heaven_

Two weeks later, there still was no answer from Kaito.

Aoko lay in bed for many nights, inventing crazy scenario after scenario, each more dreadful than the first. The post offices had either lost her letter or his. He'd forgotten all about hers. He'd forgotten all about her. He'd found a beautiful BBC actress and eloped with her to get married in Gretna Green–

Shut up, she furiously told her subconscious. She needed–she _needed_–to stop reading English romances. And what if he did–that would be none of her business, none at all. She just pitied the beautiful BBC actress–you needed to be used to Kaito if you had to live with him–

Her subconscious helpfully provided her an image of what Kaito might actually be doing with the beautiful BBC actress–if marriage and living together were impossible.

She chased it away resolutely.

Or maybe, she thought, hugging her pillow to her chest in the greyed blues of her bedroom, maybe he'd had an accident–maybe the hall where they were doing their show had burnt down–maybe he'd gotten run over by a car–a truck–maybe he was in the hospital–maybe he was­–Or maybe, she thought, hugging her pillow to her chest in the greyed blues of her bedroom, maybe he'd had an accident–maybe the hall where they were doing their show had burnt down–maybe he'd gotten run over by a car–a truck–maybe he was in the hospital–maybe he was­–

This was getting as ridiculous as the BBC actress. The _nonexistent _BBC actress.

Her subconscious, who had been plotting in a dark corner of her mind, then staged a come-back and attempted to assault her brain with images of the aforementioned kind, only featuring herself in lieu of the beautiful BBC actress.

She smothered them decisively with her pillow and made desperate attempts to have normal dreams thorough the night.

_It's okay–_

_Dear Kaito, Listen, I don't care to know what's happened to you, if you've been so taken in the showbusiness that you've forgotten all about your best friend back ho–in Japan, or if you've been run over by a car, but the commonest courtesy is to _write back_ when someone writes to you._

_I will proceed to ignore you if you come home–back to Japan, damn you, without writing me back. It's not difficult. Just pick up a pen and paper. I know you can do it._

_–Aoko._

(This letter, upon reception, astonished Kaito so much he read it thrice over, utterly floored, before he ever thought of replying to it.)

_It's okay… It's okay…_

_Dear Aoko,_

_I'm sorry. I hadn't forgotten. The shows have been taking too much of my time. I meant to answer your letter earlier, but I never seemed to find the time to._

_I wonder what you imagined. You probably thought I'd had an accident or something–or run away with some famous actress–I met one yesterday, by the way, from the BBC–but I'm all right, really. The shows are doing fine. The hall is labelled complete every night; I had no idea Johnson-san was so famous._

_He says I'm my father's son. I usually reply it's all thanks to his own teaching skills, and we spend half-hours smothering each other with compliments; until his wife or the twins come interrupt us. When we don't have to produce on stage, we usually spend the evening watching Disney films with the kids, who know them all by heart._

_By the way, we took photographs a few days ago. I'm sending you two. The couple is Johnson-san and his wife. They say hello back. The other is me and the kids._

_I haven't told them anything. I just mentioned you once or twice, but they immediately picked up the hint and decided we were engaged to be married–apparently writing letters to one another is the Sign of True Love. I dared not disappoint them._

_And in reply to your question, yes, I am writing to my mother. Less often, though. She phoned Johnson-san once–I mean Johnson-san's wife–and apparently they discussed me for an hour before his husband and I came home. She told me the two of you had lunch together once or twice. That a new habit?_

_I got a postcard from Koizumi. I'll spare you the details, but she looks like she's enjoying herself. Though knowing her, that may mean a lot of different things._

_So you _did_ juggle at one point, and that wasn't only my imagination going in wild fantasies. I'll have to teach you again when I'm home. The knack is easy to lose, but easy to pick up again. You'll do it in no time._

_I bought you a present already, and I could find a tape of the show. Johnson-san dedicated it to you, so I guess you'll be able to boast of it later. Thank me?_

–_Kaito_

_PS. Why shut up? It's true._

_Seasons are changing_

_Dear Kaito,_

_You are without any possible doubt the greatest ass I've ever met. You wrote me first, if I may remind you. This is your responsibility. Deal with it. AND STOP READING MY MIND. IT'S CREEPY._

_The shows must be pretty addictive if you actually forget all about me. I mean. I mean, if you forget all about all your friends in Japan, while on the way to Fame, then shame on you, you really are hopeless, you know. I'm glad it works out well, though. It would have been–troublesome if you'd messed up mid-show, wouldn't it?_

_I like the photographs. Johnson-san and his wife look very nice, and it's very kind of them to say hello. Tell them I wish them all the best. Or something. I'm sure you can work out something amiable–more amiable than can be expressed in a letter._

_As for the other picture, well, these are very _lively_ kids, aren't they? It's very nice. I assume this is your room. Still, it's not like you to not have noticed they were going to assault you. What could have absorbed you so much?_

_And what do you mean, you dared not disappoint them? What EXACTLY did you tell them? You better not have told them anything perverted, Kaito, or it'll be my mop welcoming you home–in Japan, I mean. _

_I did have lunch with your mom twice over the past month. We talked about you mostly. She's very proud–says you're 'doing what you've always wanted to do and doing a great job of it'–so I guess I can safely say you ARE your father's son. You look a lot like him when he was a young man, or so your mom says. She is an awesome woman, you know. I like her very much._

_It's still as hot here. The weather reports keep saying it'll storm, but I've seen nothing of it so far. How is it in London?_

_I don't know if I'll be able to juggle anymore, you know–it's been something like ten years by now. I'll be willing to try, but I have my doubts. Still, it's kind of you to offer to teach me again. _

_­–Aoko_

_PS. What's true, you jerk. Shut up anyway._

_And stars are falling all for us_

Over the three long months he spent in England, in-between late shows and gargantuan breakfasts and wanderings through town with ten-years-old twins, Kaito generally wrote letters. Some he sent to his mother. Some he sent to Aoko. Some he sent to Nakamori-keibu–anonymous Hawaii postcards mostly, getting irate reactions in Aoko's letters about 'Damn KID taking fucking vacations to the isles'–and mostly for a laugh. One he even sent Hakuba, full of cheeky and infamous, shameless blackmail. Some he never sent.

He kept those in his desk drawer. He eventually had to lock that, after one of the twins took to taking them out and reading them out loud for the whole family to hear.

They ranged from the angstying sort to the saccharine-sweet variety, in quick succession. Most began with _Aoko. There's something I've wanted to tell you for a long time…_ (those generally ended up crumpled in a tight ball and the trash bin).

(He started to hide them in his desk drawer, too, when the twins began to ransack said trash bin.)

A few seemed to head off in the good direction, though they spun out of control more or less quickly. _Aoko. We've known each other for a long time. Aoko. I– Aoko. It's difficult to say this. Aoko. I think I need to say this. It may be cowardly of me to say it in a letter, but– Aoko. You're probably wondering why I kissed you that day. Don't you know? Aoko, I, fuck. Why didn't you kiss me back?_

_Aoko,_

_I–_

_Screw that._

One he wrote while he was completely hammered, having gone out for a few drinks with the staff after the show, and having returned, tip-toed rather loudly down the bedroom corridor, closed the door, sat at his desk, gotten out paper and pen.

_Aoko,_

_I so want to get under your skin._

_Not only figuratively._

_This is a marriage proposal._

_You are not allowed to say no._

_-Kaito._

Retrospectively, he thought that was one of the two which best expressed his feelings.

_Days grow longer and– _

_Dear Aoko,_

_Sorry. Can't help it. You are too easy to read sometimes–your letter just screamed, 'oh my god, Kaito eloped with a BBC actress!' or the like. And you know how much I love teasing you._

_You are, however, perfectly right. I wrote you first. It is therefore my own responsibility to keep writing._

_The shows were actually easier than I'd thought. It's–difficult to explain to someone who has never been on stage before, but the–exaltation you feel before entering on cue all but settles in your chest and you just feel warm, very warm. It's very strange, and totally unlike making tricks for the class back in high school. I don't know what it's due to–the lightless audience, maybe, as though it were only one, enormous face staring at you, waiting for your next move, and not only you mustn't be so scared of them you're paralyzed, but you've got to make advantage of their staring._

_The whole profession of a magician is to lure his audience, and let them never see what lies behind those tricks they almost believe in. If they did–well, if they did, then it would be all over._

_I did tell Johnson-san and his wife about you–they were the ones who gave me the photos for you. They wish you all the best–especially, they say, since being my childhood friend mustn't be simple business. They also ask if you'd like to accompany me next time I come visit them._

_If I remember well, that picture was taken while I was reading one of your letters._

_I didn't tell them anything. Much. They're ten, you know, not five. They know more or less what relationships between a man and a woman come down to._

_My mom has always liked you. Remember when we had cookies and tea at home when we were nine? She always spoiled _you._ You always got twice as much cookies at me. Yours are better now, though–you picked it up nicely._

_The weather's fine here. Hot, but not as much as it seems to be in Japan. The kids are taking me everywhere, trying to lure me into buying them books and juggling balls. Speaking of which, you really needn't worry. It's like riding a bike. You'll do it fine. With me as a teacher you only can._

–_Kaito._

_PS. What IS true? I forgot._

_–nights grow shorter_

_I can show you I'll be the one_

There were only two solutions, was the result of Aoko's ponderings after two months and a half of mindless correspondence, and they were either that the sun was beating down on her and making her dizzy, or–as absurd as that may seem, as stupidly unfathomable–and why shouldn't she?–she was actually beginning to miss Kaito.

Probably both, she mused as she left for cram school one late afternoon. The sky was synthetic blue, such that one might believe it would cloud and darken over the span of a minute and storm itself away. Probably both. The sun was beating down on her, and _thus_ she felt as though she missed Kaito.

It did not make as much sense as she had trusted it would.

It was not the first time they had taken vacations away from each other. It was not the first time they had been separated–and yet she acted the way a Juliet would when hearing the first night's nightingale sing long after her Romeo had left.

Which was just plain ridiculous. It was just plain ridiculous, she told herself. She could no longer breed the brainless thoughts of the middle school girl she could no longer remember ever being, before even the KID fiasco began–had there really been a time when KID had not ruled over their lives, over hers in taking her father, over his in admiration and morning newspapers she liked shredding to bits?

She could no longer remember being this–the average middle school girl she once had been, with school skirts short and easily flipped–and even the slightly-less-average high school girl who delighted in shredding KID articles to bits and blotches felt swapped away slowly by the summer heat.

It was hot. The lemon trees were rustling like _fuurin_ chimes in the lukewarm breeze that shook the branches. She went on her way to cram school.

_'Cause you're my…_

_Dear Kaito,_

_Well stop it. I will not have you back to tease me as when we were seventeen._

_I'm glad it works out well. I'll enjoy seeing you on tape–it might be quite funny. I bet you added some pieces of your own in those tricks Johnson-san taught you. You bettered even your dad's tricks, and that's saying an awful lot._

_Thank them both for their kind words and the pictures. I would accept their invitation with pleasure; only I suppose that will not be until a long time. And they seem to have gotten the gist of our relationship–me bearing with you with the patience of a martyr._

_Those twins, however, do _not_ seem to have gotten it. I'm certain you told them things. You… must have implied innuendo or something, and they, in their innocent ten-year-old mind, interpreted it as they willed. Well, maybe not altogether innocent. I'm positive anyone in a family of magicians must be slightly insane and certainly not as genuine as they seem. (I mean. Look at you.)_

_I dined with your mom again the other day. She showed me pictures she took back when we were kids; she even gave me some. I don't even know if this letter will reach you before you take the plane home, though, so I won't include them. And anyway I suppose you know them all._

_She showed me photos of her wedding too. Your dad was a very handsome man, you know. I'd nearly forgotten that. No wonder you mom fell for him._

_A girl from cram school asked me about you today. She was in high school with us. I don't think you remember her–I didn't until she told me–but she remembered us. Said we were the famous mop chase couple. What. The. Hell. You made me look like a delinquent!_

_She asked where you were, and she looked thrilled to learn you'd left for England. Apparently she had a crush on you while at school, never knew that, did you? Or were she part of the broken hearts crowd?_

_The point of this is, she asked me to pass on a message (I told her we were writing each other. For some reason she found that hilarious). She says you 'had better not waste your chance while you have it,' whatever that means. Probably refers to your future career. Oh dear._

_It's no point flattering me. Cookies are for Christmastime. I might make rhubarb pie, though. If you're good._

_When exactly are you coming back?_

–_Aoko_

_PS. I don't know. JUST SHUT UP._

_You're my…_

Of the two letters he wrote that he thought expressed his feelings best, the second was even shorter; he had, however, not been drunk while writing. He had been sitting at his desk for a good three quarters of an hour, staring at the thin sunbeams that slanted on the dark-brown window frame.

Gold fluttered on the glass. He never knew what he thought of her just then; why the gold didn't inspire him otherworldly woes of wordless passion and carnations and balcony serenades; why summer heat felt calm and tranquil and not blaring hot, just why why and nothing else beyond the mere stupefied puerile pleasure of the word and _god _what a wondrous thought.

_Aoko,_

_I love you._

_That's all._

_­–Kaito._

He never burnt them. He never sent them.

_My…_

What he did write, however, was this:

_Aoko._

_We've been turning around the issue for three months._

_I think it's enough._

_I'm coming back in two days. We'll talk then. My plane lends at six-fourteen p.m., local hour. _He would have wanted to add–words of complete, stupid, utter love, words that would burn the paper they were written on, words that were both unforgettable and unforgivable–words more than simply, _I think we really need this conversation. We've had for years._

–_Kaito._

_My true love–my whole heart_

_Please don't throw that away_

She was waiting for him in the airport terminal, in a light blouse and long cream skirt.

He stopped short at the sight of her, bag hoisted over his blue-jacketed shoulder almost the way he'd done while leaving–each step toward the gate carefully calculated, each swipe of the blue eyes over her figure accounting for possibilities and opportunities and the cautious space they left between them–and he grinned surprisedly.

"I think I didn't believe you'd come."

She scowled at him. "The hell are you talking about? You _told _me to come meet you."

"I didn't."

"Yes you did!" she scoffed, and pouted her face away, half-glaring at the appropriate neighbourhood of the bag strap strained over his shoulder. "Damn it, Kaito, I come to fetch you at the airport after we haven't seen each other for three full months and all you find clever to say is–"

"I just told you my plane landed at six or so," Kaito clarified. "That didn't mean, _come get me._" Her eyes flicked up to his, glared half-heartedly, and returned to the bag strap. "I would have come to see you anyway," he said gently.

Aoko glared more decisively than ever. "Damn it. Don't say things–don't say things like that."

"Like what?"

"With that voice!" she exploded. "Besides, saying your plane lands at six-fourteen _implies_ you want me to come meet you! That's common courtesy!" she followed him, seething, still glaring at the bag strap. "I even tried to find nice clothes for–"

"I saw that," he said quietly, only barely glancing at her. "You look nice."

She stopped dead in her tracks.

"What?"

"Are you jet-lagged or something?"

"_What?"_

Her glare had softened slightly, leaving in her eyes something crawling between amazement and suspicion. "'You look nice'? When have you ever told me that? Three months ago you would've said something in the vein of–_You see you can sometimes look like a girl–_or the like."

The airport was noisy and stuffed, lightful, though redder, brighter than it had been three months before. Aoko stood silent. Kaito hesitated; his eyes locked to her lips, and then lower, when a pink triangle of tongue darted out to nervously lick them, to the lock of black hair strayed on her jawline. It seemed to him he could hear her breathing.

"… yeah. I'm jet-lagged." He shrugged, grinned quickly, and resumed his walk. "C'mon. Home. What about pizza?"

He didn't speak again until they were exiting the airport. Aoko walked quietly by his side, hands in her back, never speaking to ask him how England was or to offer to carry one of the bags. When she eventually did, it was for something so trivial Kaito might have laughed.

"The train station's that way. Or we could take a taxi."

"Train's fine."

She scowled at him, though it melted rapidly. "You're sure? If you don't have change I can–"

"Train."

He gave her a wrapped package when they were seated on the banquette. The sun had made it hot, near-smouldering underneath them; it would be setting soon. Near enough, it set the sky ablaze and shone bright on the train's metallic bars like white iron. There hardly was anyone with them. It was Sunday; Tokyo had remained within the relative comfort of ceiling fans and lemon drinks.

"It's the tape of the show," Kaito explained. "Johnson-san dedicated it to you. He says to tell he hopes you like it."

Her hands closed around it. They were long and pale, fingering the blue ribbon in a rather nervous and probably unconscious manner. "Thank you. Weren't we supposed to watch it together?"

"We are," Kaito said, voice smooth and–praying _please please please–_never faltering. "But there's a gift inside. And a note from the twins. They insisted upon leaving you a few words after they'd asked me so much about you."

The pale hands closed more firmly around the wrapping paper. "Thanks." Then decisively–"They really look like nice kids, if you don't give them too many ideas to feed their spontaneous imagination. They really did think I was your girlfriend, uh?"

"Yeah. Yeah, they did."

She laughed. "I wonder how they ever came to that conclusion–"

"Aoko."

Something shifted _fast_ as her eyes dropped to the package in her hand, blue wrapping paper studded with stars, then flickered up to his face, settling in the general vicinity of a cheekbone. "Yes?"

"I–"

His voice caught, faltered for an empty second, resumed quickly.

"I love you."

'_Cause I'm here for you_

_Please don't walk away_

_And please tell me you'll stay_

She had been told by Keiko that being confessed to meant feeling either very cold or very flustered.

She felt neither. The red sun, reverberating on the windowpane, was beating hard against her turned cheek. On the far other end of the banquette, close enough to overhear but too far to listen, a businessman was rustling quietly through the evening newspaper. A baby in a stroller was crying softly; the mother was crouching, trying to hush it up.

Kaito was very quiet. His eyes never left her face.

"Oh," she said, and the silence that ensued, punctuated by the metallic clashing of the train hissing to a stop, sounded deafening and burning _red. "Oh."_

"That's all," he said, and broke off. The blue eyes were eased away. Aoko breathed again.

"I–"

"You don't have to talk about it," he cut her off–his voice was sharp and strangely out-of-tune, on the hoarse side. His glance returned to her for a second, and in the crimson light that streamed in the space between and around them that blue felt crawling and raw– "We don't need to talk about it."

He didn't look at her again. "Alright," Aoko said after a few moments, and was glad her voice didn't split in the middle as she spoke.

The businessman left the train at the next station. He cast them a passing glance–and what must he have seen, a young man and a young woman on the banquette, two inches and a hundred yards between them–and left quickly just as the doors slid shut. Aoko wondered exactly how much he had overheard.

"That's my station," Kaito said, at the next. It was.

She watched him pick up his bag over his shoulder again. "Weren't we supposed to–"

"I think we'd better not," he said. He was looking down at her, an almost-smile on his lips. "Right?"

There was no trace, after he'd gone, that he'd ever been there at all; only the slanted bluish light of dusk on the banquette beside her and a package on her lap, between her hands, that had no right to feel so light as it did.

_Stay_

Her father wasn't home. For the first time in years, Aoko was grateful.

(Now what?)

She considered the package in her hands. Her name was inscribed on it in Kaito's handwriting. It was square and neat-looking, carefully wrapped up in a paper that was just a little lighter blue than Kaito's eyes. The ribbon curled absent-mindedly around the edges, peels that coiled around her fingers.

Inside was the promised tape, ornamented with a picture of a grinning Kaito and grey-haired, kind-smiling Johnson-san, surprisingly dissimilar in his bright black tuxedo to the beaming father portrait she had seen before. A note fell off when she opened it, seated on the living-room's couch.

Johnson-san had dedicated it as promised. His penmanship was twisted and old-looking, and she wondered vaguely whether it was his real one or his stage one. Her thumb brushed gently the entwining kanjis.

_To Aoko-san–_

_Who, I am told, loves magic and magicians enough to bear with one certain boy for days on end. After three months in the same household as him, I respect you greatly for enduring him since age six._

_May you enjoy this._

A flourished signature followed. Aoko smiled slightly and flipped the note open.

This handwriting was on the perilous balance between learning and mastering, and the words were still a bit childish, even if the sentiments behind them were not. Aoko read it straight through, feeling stirred and strangely moved.

_Dear Aoko-neechan,_ it said,

_We hope you are well and it is not too hot in Japan. Kaito-oniisan told us he had told you about us, so we thought we would write you a letter, too._

_Kaito-oniisan told us a lot about you. He said you had known each other since you were younger than we are, that you liked magic a lot and were very pretty. He also showed us a picture of you. He said his mother had sent it to him, but we saw him take it from his wallet, so we think he had it with him all the time._

_We played a lot with Kaito-oniisan. When he wasn't playing with us, or pratc–practic–training with Ojii-san, he usually was reading or writing to you. He always laughed when we asked him why, and wouldn't answer, but once we went to wake him up in the morning and we found him asleep on a letter._

_(He asked us not to tell anyone about this, but it's about you, so we thought you'd like to know.)_

_Kaito-oniisan told us you weren't his girlfriend, but we think he would want you to be. When he talks about you he's always smiling._

_Do you love Kaito-oniisan the way he loves you? we hope you do. Obaa-san said you could come spend next summer with us and Kaito-oniisan. We would like that very much. Will you write back to us?_

_PS. We told him he wasn't allowed to read this letter until you had read it. If he wants to know, you can tell him, but only after you read it._

Had Aoko been but one of the fearless, clichéd heroines from the books she used to devour in middle and high school, she would probably have burst out in tears and run away in the rain to Kaito's house, leaving the ink on the letter to trickle away under the thunderstorm.

Being, however, only human, she ordered pizza, watched a movie, and fell asleep in front of the TV.

_And I know I'll be okay_

_Though my skies are turning gray_

After a day and a half of lying on his bed with his hands behind his head and staring at the ceiling lights and very cautiously _not_ falling asleep lest he should find, at waking up, that he had not nightmared it all, Kaito decided that being caged would most likely drive him crazy in the course of a few more hours and volunteered to go get chocolate milk at the nearest convenience store.

The summer night was hot, thick, heavy; as he passed the park he heard the soft chirping of cicadas. The streetlamps shed a yellow glow on his shadow. As he reached town and the lighted streets, the combini's aloof, electric neons greeted him like a slap to the face.

It was cooler inside, and the metallic whites felt mildly reassuring. It wasn't late. People were queuing at the cashier's desk, others were wandering between the displays and bargain prices; other still read magazines and mangas by the shopwindow, near the automatic door.

Kaito smiled at little. He had missed all this. London was vigorous and vibrant night and day, but Tokyo–well, Tokyo felt like home.

He ended up staring gruesomely at the sweet drinks section, eyes fixed randomly on a bottle of soda pop and trying not to think about how empty Aoko's voice had sounded, how empty she had _looked_ when she had said–

"I told you once those sweet drinks would be the death of you."

And there she was, standing beside him–_be_side him–in jean shorts and a plain white t-shirt, glaring quickly at him and then back at the sweet drinks departments.

He would have wanted to say _Hi_, would have wanted to say _How are you,_ but it was too late for that, too late for both, too late for _everything_–and he found it was in a little breathless voice that he said, "What are you doing here?"

She scowled at him. "Buying milk." She held up the plastic bag. "Obviously."

In a combini on the far other end of the town from your house, Kaito did not say. "Uh," was what he did say. Much as he wanted to–just speak, speak away in his usual skilled blabber, pretend everything was alright and he was just fine, smile and smile and _smile_ until his mouth grew weak, he couldn't.

So they stood in silence, each under the neon lights falling down straight onto them and casting a minute shadow on the white, shining floor.

"Walk me back," Aoko said finally, and started off toward the counter without another word. Kaito stared disbelievingly after her and pulled a chocolate milk bottle down from the shelf before he followed suit.

"What?"

"You heard me. Walk me home."

_I will never let you fall_

_I'll stand up with you forever_

They were silent as they left the combini and the town's brightest districts and walked up the hill toward Aoko's house. The night felt darker, thicker around them–the heat had never been so striking, coating their bodies with a thin layer of sweat.

Aoko walked neither quickly nor slow, both hands in her back, holding onto the thin supermarket bag. Kaito went beside her, one hand in his jacket pocket, the other curling around the handle of his own bag. He did not look at her.

They reached a crossroads, and cars passed them by, their lights casting sweeping, elongated shadows on the sidewalk behind them. Aoko stared at the blinking red figure on the other side of the street, indicating _stop stop stop wait go_ and turned decisively to Kaito.

"You'll make a good father."

He looked baffled. She would have triumphed over that, only a week earlier. "_What?"_

"You'll make a good father," she repeated, and stepped forwards to cross the street. They walked before the halted cars, two dark silhouettes in their brightness. "Those twins–they like you a lot. They told me–in their letter, about what you did with them in London. They­'re good kids, I guess."

"Yes," Kaito said, softly. "Yes, they are."

She resisted the urge to look up at him, kept her eyes firmly stuck on the sidewalk before them, a streetlamp. "Kaito. I–show me your wallet."

This time he was utterly floored. "Aoko–"

"Please." There was only a slight inflexion to her voice, the _tilt_ that said it all, and she knew he'd picked it up. She waited for him to say no, to say that's not what I'm waiting for, to say something _else_, but he, surprisingly, obeyed without a word.

There _was _a picture of her in there, along with one of his father and mother. She did not recall this time–happy times, smiling times–but it didn't matter.

She snapped the wallet shut and handed it back to him. "Thank you."

"Found what you were looking for?" His voice seemed strained and forced. He slid the wallet back in his back pocket and watched her cautiously for one second or two, then looked back forward and toward the next crossroad.

"Yes. Yes, I did." God help her, she'd found _exactly _what she was looking for. Was it… normal to feel so nervous, so on-edge as they both walked, just _walked_ side by side and so, so quietly? She paused. "I'll make cookies," she said suddenly.

He face-faulted this time, and lagged two steps behind. "… what?"

"I'll make cookies," she repeated firmly–turned to look at him–looked down. "If you–if you want some."

He kept staring. "Aoko–"

"You don't have to say yes," she said fiercely, feeling heat rush up to her cheeks at an alarming pace. "You don't–you don't have to say _any_thing." She glared at him through his bangs. "Understood?"

_I'll be there for you through it all_

Kaito kept staring at her, his mind a wind-whirl, wondering whatever _this_ was she had just blatantly lain between them for everyone to see–whether this was a, a–a peace-offering, a truce, or something else altogether.

She looked properly exasperated. "Are you ever going to _work out_ what I'm getting at?"

Oh.

"I–"

_Oh._

"Kai–"

"Aoko." He stared her down, eyes stroking affectionately the faint tinge on pink fluttering against her cheekbones. God, he thought, quietly, almost reverently, I am never, ever going to have enough of you. "I would very much like you to make… _cookies…_ for us tonight."

Her blush increased ten-fold. "Kaito–"

"I would," he cut her off again, "_very_ much like you to."

"Would you," she said softly. And then louder, starting to walk again, "I might not make them good, you know. I could make mistakes in the ingredients. Or I could leave them too long in the oven and they'd be burnt." She eyed him warily, cautiously. "You'll have to eat them anyways. If you come with me."

"I will," he said, and grinned, and meant it all the way.

"Good," she said, and there was a not-quite smile threatening to crack on her lips. He pretended not to see it, but leant forward to nudge the plastic bag out of her hands, and she let him without much resistance. The silence was no longer tense and heavy like summer heat, but companionable, familiar–an old friend. Then–

"Nice legs."

"Kaito!"

They took the long way home.

_Even if saving you sends me to heaven_

-

**This last combini-and-walking-home scene was greatly inspired by the Ghibli movie Mimi O Sumaseba (which was translated into Whisper Of The Heart in English), which is beautiful and summer-wise and deals with a girl's problems with boys and writing, in that order. I was watching it and–_bang!_ Letter-fic.**

**By the way. My muse is on a roll. Would anyone be interested in an Arabian Nights sort of AU setting? **

**Cookies?**


	13. Sands And Sands

**A/N: Uh, so. This is random. Very much so. All serious thought will be scalped, polished, and displayed on the chimneypiece. I blame you all. You shouldn't have told me you wanted me to write it.**

**Warnings–Well, for oriental dancers. And slavery-which-isn't-really. **

**Disclaimer: Je ne suis qu'une jeune française. Nothing Japanese in me, so far as I know.**

**-**

Sands And Sands

-

"The Sultan sends his official greetings," the blue-eyed counsellor said, sitting on the marble steps to the dais in the great throne room. "He is sending presents. Gold and incense and slaves to ornate and perfume and amuse." He rolled up the missive and rose, neatly meeting the monarch's pale eyes. "It is very polite of him."

"I do not like this slavery business," the King said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He was ill-at-ease in the wide, embroidered clothes of the country, the counsellor noted with amusement. Himself had gotten the knack of wearing them quickly enough. They fell in thin, tidy layers of cloth over his bust and legs.

"I do not visit this county to endorse slavery trade," the King said impatiently, empathetically, tapping his ring around the ivory-crusted armrest.

"If I might allowed to speak–"

"I do not recall anytime when you awaited permission to speak, Kuroba," the King said, not unkindly, levelling him with a dark-gold glare.

The counsellor smiled, quickly. "Too true. I... do not think it advisable, Ou-sama, to refuse the offers of our host. Returning the Sultan's greeting gifts back to him comes down to rebuffing his hospitality. It would be–wiser–to abide the country's traditions for the time being."

The King fingered the scarf draped around his neck with calm, golden deliberation. "… so your point is?"

"There would be nothing so easy than freeing the slaves once we are no longer within the Sultan's reach," the counsellor said quietly.

"Are you getting anything out of this, Kuroba?" the King asked. The corners of his mouth twitched. "A bet, perhaps? Or just kicks?"

This time the counsellor laughed outright, speaking sheer amusement and delight in the unwavering blue eyes. He looked younger when he did so, and the laughter lines around at the corners of his lips indicated that he did so often. "No, Ou-sama, I am not. I am merely keeping a business eye on the matter."

"Of course," the King said, now outwardly entertained. "Tell the Sultan I give my thankyous–you will manage it to sound as flattering as possible. Make sure the slaves are taken care of when they arrive. They might be wretched and famished. Clothe them. Feed them."

The counsellor grinned, bowed once, and bowed again at the door, this time with the great flourishes of hands and smiles that were custom to the county.

"Just go," the King sighed, waving a nonchalant hand in his direction. He went quickly.

_-o-_

The reception occurred at nightfall. It was a country of sand, blazing hot at day, chilly at night; a country of dunes and sky, bright and mismatched, until when the sun had set they were shadowed to a dark, swaying blue.

The main city stood a few miles away, shining gold and platinum and the subtle shiver of ivory on the bombed domes and turrets. Here, bathed in the cool greens of watered gardens, was the guests' palace, where they had been lodged in upon their arrival. None of them were used to the heat. The delicate touch of trickling water and the large, lazy sliced leaves were as much a comfort than the iciest of drinks.

The convoy must have left the city early in the morning. The messenger carrying the Sultan's greetings, travelling light and fast on a fresh horse, had arrived by noon; it took the carriages another afternoon to reach them. Servants gathered ant-wise around them, blabbering as they unloaded the lush chests and jewellery sets.

Kaito watched them from under the arcades. The light was falling rapidly, and already the yard was swathed in blue hues, not yet dark enough to blur out the details. He saw Jii-chan direct the menservants toward the storage rooms, order the carts round to the stables–only when they were cleared away did he catch sight of about half a dozen men and women standing helpless among the servants.

A tenth of tall men dressed in the Sultan's guard uniform were keeping them to a small group. Kaito sidetracked Jii-chan toward them with a glance and a nod, then interested himself in the thin line.

There were seven of them, three men, four women, all of them black-haired, the skin a dark honey tan. There hardly seemed to be anything peculiar or worth attention in their dirty feet and arms, their sackcloth-clad bodies; he was, however, puzzled by what they _carried_.

The men's loads were tall and large, heavy-looking, wrapped in brown, rough fabric but distinctly music instruments. Three of the women held tightly onto a small bag each, striking in their lush, bright materials–the fourth woman's sack was slightly larger, and she'd wedged it between her legs, protectively shunning it from sight.

Musicians and dancers, he thought. Probably a troop. Jii-chan shepherded them all away, toward lodgings and perhaps baths, then hurried over to tell him rather uselessly so.

"The King demands they are well-treated," Kaito said slowly, thinking. "Give them clothes and something to eat and drink. Do not tell them yet they're to be freed–I will, when the time comes–not so long as those are here," he said, with a sharp nod at two of the guards who had lagged behind in the yard, surveying the last of the servants as they carried away caskets.

He made up his mind quickly. "Tell them they will perform before the King tonight."

It was the best way to convince those guards, and thereby the Sultan–that his gifts had been welcomed as they were worth. Besides, Hakuba needed entertainment–after over a week of sending out messengers to deal directly with the Sultan and getting but politenesses and flatteries in return, the King was bored out of his wits.

_And so am I_, he thought, looking onto the now-deserted courtyard and the blues on its cobbles. _So am I._

_-o-_

Two of the guards turned out to be dignitaries send out by the Sultan to escort the convoy, and are rather pissed at being mistaken for mere soldiers. Kaito apologized profusely, nodded and smiled, introduced them into splendid apartments, invited them to dine with the King, and all in all was so charming and obsequious he had them twirling around his little finger by the time the servants brought in the first plates.

Hakuba did not speak this country's elaborate tongue. Kaito was therefore stuck as translator and with the heavy task of turning his King's sarcastic comments into flowery compliments to please the inviting ears. The sweets to end the meal came forward as sheer relief on silver plates–they meant entertainment, music, dancing, silence, and peace.

The musicians had been playing gently all evening. Their instruments were unknown to Kaito, with strings all three of them and drawing soft, light, airy, sighing sounds as their owners wished it–one of them looked vaguely like a koto, and sounded almost like one.

They were stronger now, rhythming a quick beat twice the speed of heartbeats, rising with each note to strike it high and fast in the air.

It brought silence around the throne room.

And then the dancers were among them, sprung from nowhere, feet slipping like quicksilver on the marble floor, each dressed in thin, flapping materials that were far too translucent and open for privacy. Their hair was down, swaying on their bare shoulders and threaded by the blinking beams of jewels and pearls that were strewn all the way down their bodies and which, with each move, with each swing, glistened and disappeared under the corner fires' copper glows.

It was difficult to believe these were the same, dirty women he had glimpsed in the courtyard. They were, though, and in the reds and golds the crackling flames shed, their faces were beautiful and fierce.

They danced surprisingly fast, feet stamping, hair swiping, on each note of the music and faster, faster still; they danced as a whole, as one, as each the flutter of a beat in a gigantic heart– They rarely paused. When they did, it was to twist round once more and over to one another, melting and moulding with their moves in long, elegant arcs as they came together and broke apart and their sleeves and veils tangled, twirled, and fell free, flying, until they became but one flame, off-spun and live, and ablaze with brightness.

Kaito glanced around after a few minutes. Hakuba had rested an elbow on one knee, a slight smile on his lips he probably wasn't even aware of. Both the Sultan's dignitaries wore the half-pleased, half-closed masks of those who have attended the same spectacle thousands of times before. Among the other guests in the throne room, most of them officers under the King's orders, some were outright staring, all were eagerly looking on the dance.

The rhythm changed suddenly.

He missed how it began. But the music was getting slower, deeper, and three of the dancers were revolving around the fourth, scarves snarling one last time until they soared away, a bright whirl, and with each scarf each dancer fell away, leaving the fourth alone and –nearly, _near_ly– still.

The music paused.

The fourth dancer had minute bells tied to her wrists and ankles. For one long moment they were all one could hear. The brittle peals fell like droplets onto clear water; each twist of the arm, of the hand, of the foot, nigh-imperceptible to the eye, but, to the ear, audible, and glass-like breakable.

And when the woman began to move, the dance was no longer fast and febrile, but _slow_, no longer fragile, but lingering and calculated. She hardly moved at all. When she did, her limbs extended long and somewhat feline, and the music started slowly behind her, rising gently with the same agonising slowness.

The three dancers were clapping their hands, quietly, and the rhythm accelerated –but oh so little– as the soloist's moves became more firmly marked, more accentuated, more profound also, until it were no longer her limbs only that eased into the gesture, but her whole body accompanying it.

A roll of the head –and the black hair fell like a curtain– a sway of the shoulder –and the scarf draped over it tumbled down the arms– a twist of the hips ­–and the pants flared wide and sliced on the side to show leg-skin– each time the angles perfect, fixed, measured.

And this was about when Kaito lost sight of them, lost sight of the, the–the when and where and how, and focused on the _who._

He had seen dancers before. He had seen those beautiful solos before, the deep control over the supple, feminine body. But this –this woman whose body wasn't even much rounded, wasn't even as full-formed as others he had seen– this _dance_ had the smooth sensuality of a lush invite. The music felt stronger now, beating like a heart again –but slow and steady, reaching _deep_, reaching _down._

The woman took a breath, shaky and loud in the thick atmosphere. He wasn't breathing either, and his lungs were aching. One extended arm was trembling with strain, until it fell down to her side and flexed again. He inspired slowly, marvelling in the heat, in the airy heaviness that came after love, the subtle undertones of sex and lust in each move, in each look, in each–

The climax came in the scarf tumbling to the floor, and then the woman all but collapsed onto it.

Kaito half-rose, alarmed, but she was breathing, chest rising and falling heavily, roughly. Her eyes were wide open, and between the dark bangs and the curve of her arm, their blue was dilated almost to black.

There was but little applause. It was not the custom to acclaim slaves. The two dignitaries were lifting their glasses at the King, who returned the gesture with a slight smile. There, at least, was a language that needed no translation.

Let them. He needed air.

The night was cool under the arcades. There was little wind, but the palm leaves downward were rustling softly, a dark green against the greyed cobbles. A few servants were murmuring in the yard, in the rectangles of golden light outlined out from the inside.

You could see the stars. The dunes toppled away, in each direction similar, similar to not-quite still waves. After the heat of the dance, the outside cool was striking and pulsing against his sweat-damp skin.

He wondered what exactly had just happened, arms braced against the stone balcony. The woman had simply performed a dance like any other, a _dance_, nothing else, nothing more. And yet–

And yet it had–

The murmurs of the servants stirred to a close. There was soft rustling, a few words, a few hushed voices. Kaito leant his chin upon the back of his hand, waiting.

The troop of seven emerged from the under the pergola. The three men were holding tightly onto their instruments, carrying their heavy weights with the skill of those used to doing it for years; the woman were whispering quietly. Kaito's eyes sought out the fourth dancer and her blue garments; found her leaning against one of her companions, apparently exhausted. When they turned slightly under the advice of one man to look at the moon, just a little past full in the night sky, he saw her eyes were half-closed and her head limp.

"Young master," Jii-chan whispered at his elbow.

Kaito did not look away from the group of hunched women. "Jii-chan," he greeted in return. "That woman–the one who danced." A nod at the young face downward, in the moonlit courtyard. "Do you know her name?"

"No." The quiet admission was taken away by the night wind. "But I can find out."

Kaito nodded. The troop downstairs was heading towards their apartment, the lush, light-catching materials of their outfits escaping the bright glow of the fires to taint with darkness, their bodies melting into it. "How did you find the dance?"

There was a pause while Jii-chan seemed to collect his thoughts. "It was very beautiful," he said finally. "She is very skilled."

"Nothing else?"

"No."

"I see." He watched them until they had disappeared past the door. The King had to call him three times until he returned to the throne room.

-

**Aaaaand that's it for now. I have no idea when I'll continue this, if at all. I have several ideas for one or several sequels, but they might come up in weeks or months, which is mainly why I've posted this in Gems and not as another chaptered fic. Would **_**you**_** like to read more about this universe–or have cookies–or both?**

**Anyway, no updates in Gems for at least a month. February is planned for something else.**


	14. The Kind Of Cat You Can't Bring Home

**A/N: So, I lied. I said I wouldn't update until March, and, um, this is an update. It's also random, pointless, and based off a completely cracky idea. I blame katie-chan, for that youkai talk of ours (it all led to this really), and butterfly-chan, for the amount of AU. And crack.**

**Disclaimer–clearly, I do not own. Give me a cat!Kaito anytime. **

**-**

**The Kind Of Cat You Can't Bring Home**

**-**

Nakamori Aoko was many things.

She was twenty-four, a history student, working on her master thesis, only half-dressed, in a hurry, and definitely late for class. She was also in front of her mirror, trying to pull on tights without tearing them (which was proving rather difficult given the amount of stress recently dropped on her shoulders), hair pins pinched between her lips in the vain hope of managing to do her hair before the alarm clock struck the hour.

The door slid sneakily open. "Ao–"

"I said stay in the living-room!" she squealed, dropping the pins. She swore and crouched to recover them, making displeased hisses between gritted teeth as one of them eluded her fingers. Why couldn't the damn thing–

A hand slipped in her field of vision, picked up the pin, and held it up to her. She bit her lip, hesitated a fraction, took it, looking up to a lazy smile on stretched lips and eyes that were entirely too blue to be true.

So were the ears.

And the tail.

"I told you to stay in the living-room," she muttered, unconvincingly.

"But I was bo-ored," he intoned, and fell back on the small of his back, leaning his weight on his hands as her eyes lingered on him, half-wondering how he could keep that position with his tail stuck underneath him. It didn't seem to bother him. "It's much funnier when you're here, A-o-ko–"

His voice was ridden with a foreign accent, thick, though not disagreeable. It was a little rough, a little coarse, but his words and syntax were flawless. "Well," she said, standing up and fastening her collar, "you'll have to wait. I'm going to class. I'll be back this afternoon."

"Ehh?" He pouted comically, sitting up. His ears flattened a little. "Aoko-cha-an…"

"No pouting," she said. "Now hop off to the living-room and let me find my jacket."

He pouted some more but obligingly did as he was told, trotting off to slump on the couch. He sprawled over it in a fully feline fashion, tail flicking absently over the span of skin the fold of his white shirt showed above the belt of his jeans. She'd had to give him some of her father's youth clothes. The tail had been a problem (it wouldn't fit over the belt, and he'd complained that it hurt) until she'd resigned herself to pick up the scissors.

She couldn't very well leave him naked like she'd found him on her doorstep the evening before. Her first instinct had been to cover him up–scratch that, her first instinct had been to have a heart attack, finding a unknown boy (with _cat ears. _And a _tail)_ on her doormat as she came home from college.

She'd dragged him in, though–couldn't leave him there–weighted a ton–and had covered him up before she'd checked for injuries. There were none. She'd left a bowl of milk beside the couch and waited for him to wake up.

Which he had, half an hour later, with a cheerful smile and, it seemed, no intention at all to explain who he was or why she'd found him half-dead on her doorstep. The ears and tail, apparently, were quite real. He'd winced and yelped when she'd tugged on them by surprise.

He'd said his name was Kaito.

He'd also asked if he could stay.

He was quite harmless. Though he had no inhibitions at all–he didn't understand a second why she forced him to keep the towel around his hips while she hunted for clothes that would fit him–he had slept curled up on the couch and had not bothered her through the night. He was as flexible as a cat, judging by his acrobatics around the room, and he appeared to have a one-track mind–milk, milk, and milk. He was lazy, stubborn, whimsical, and–absolutely endearing.

She'd said yes–for now. "Later," she'd added, making dinner as he gulped down milk, "we'll figure out where you've come from, but for now you can just sleep on the couch." And then rules had been laid, rules of property and decency; "you're not getting close to my bedroom during the night. … actually, you're never getting close to my room. You're keeping your hands to yourself. I don't know much about nekomatas, but I think their libido is just the same as everyone else's–"

He hadn't listened; he'd been sticking his nose in the milk bottle to see if there was any left.

Now, though, looking at him stretching on the couch, she couldn't help but think–he had a gorgeous body. He was taller than her by a head–though she felt she would be able to match him in strength, if need be–and slender; the white shirt suited him perfectly and her father's jeans, a little too large, pooled around his feet in the casual way of the familiar at home. His hair was ink-black and untamed, the eyes a wild blue, the smile easy and blissful–too much of it all.

In fact, he would have been a stunning young man, hadn't it been from the fact that he was only part-man. The black ears and tail were testimony of that. They seemed to have a will of their own–not unlike an actual cat, really–as the ones flattened and perked in response to his temper, and the other would simply never be still, nimble and languid as it twined carelessly around a jean-clad leg.

"I'll be back around five," she said, pulling on her jacket and fishing around for her keys. Then struck by an afterthought–"Wait, can you even read the hour?"

No answer.

"Kaito?"

She stepped closer, ducking to get a look at his face. It was relaxed and even. He was asleep.

She shook her head with a smile, started to pour him another glass of milk, thought better of that, left the milk in the fridge, stuck a note on it with the time she'd come back and how to read the hour, considered covering him up with a blanket, thought he'd be heating up (that was bad, for cats, wasn't it?), checked on him one last time, and left for college, for which she was later than ever.

The nekomata opened his eyes again as soon as the lock turned.

He uncoiled slowly from the couch, long limbs lazy and leisurely making their way to the window. The balcony was bare of pot-plants, but bedding hang to dry over it, white sheets and a yellow, fluffy comforter in the timid spring sun. He leant against it, head resting in the crook of his arms, as he watched the street almost deserted as of now.

Aoko emerged quickly from the building entrance, wished good morning to the middle-aged custodian, who was sweeping his two-yards of garden, and quickly made her way down the sidewalk, pulling at the disarrayed chignon of her hair.

Kaito hummed contentedly as he watched her go, his tail half-curling around his thigh and eyes closed to thin slits of satisfied blue in the golden morning warmth.

_-o-_

When she came home the flat was dark and cold, and her heart went fluttering in her chest as she jerked her shoes off. There was no one in the living-room, and the curtains of the window had not been drawn; outside was the blue shades of early evening. "Kaito?"

No answer. She dropped her bags on the couch and hurried into the bedroom, flicking on a small lamp by the door. "Kai–"

He was huddling on her bed, both arms tightly hugging his legs and his face buried in his knees. She stilled, one hand still on the doorframe, breathing out in what was probably a sigh of–relief, perhaps, at seeing that he was still there. "Kaito, what are you doing on my bed?"

He must have turned his head, for one blue eye was staring at her, and she was startled by how _bright_ it was. One slitted pupil was like a black rift in the blue-green (and she was certain it hadn't been this way this morning) and she could see it perfectly in the bedroom's dim obscurity.

He buried his face in his knees again, and she blinked as though a light had been put out. "You said you'd be there at five." His accent was thicker than ever, maybe because it'd been a few hours since she hadn't heard it, maybe–not.

"I–I know," she said, dumbfounded. It was half-past six. She was so used to living alone, she hadn't thought a second he might have worried over her absence. "I'm sorry. I had to pass by the market and there was a crowd–"

No answer. She walked in, leaning up to switch on the lamp hanging over the bed, its rice paper shade casting a warm, diffuse glow onto the walls and the cat-man hunched up on her blanket. "Kaito? I'm sorry." The mattress creaked when she sat beside him. He didn't budge. "Hey…"

She extended one hesitant hand to one of his ears. The black fur was as soft as it looked; softer perhaps than she'd thought it'd be. She scratched it gently, nimble fingers moving slightly to meet the most sensitive spot. It felt exactly like stroking a real cat's ear. "I'm sorry, Kaito…"

She must have hit a soft place, for he let out a small sound very much like a mewl and uncontrollably rubbed his head back against her hand. She smiled indecisively, and let her fingers trail sideways to the other ear.

This time he couldn't repress a faint whimper and turned his head to look at her again; his eyes did not look so greenish now the light had been switched on. "'S not fair," he muttered, and moaned quite loudly when she stroked the underside of his ear, delicately. They kept in that position a few minutes, her taming him by inches, him relaxing slowly, all the tension in his body seeping perceptibly away.

At times he would rub back against her fingers or away, in an indication to stay there or move. His eyes were closed now, his face relaxed and showing nearly nothing, but there was a purr building in his throat, and his tail was trembling barely on the comforter. Just like a real cat; though Aoko had never had one of her own (her father couldn't stand them, had refused to even let her welcome in a friend's kitten while the friend's family was away on vacation and they needed helping out with the pet), she had seen enough to know how they behaved–and Kaito, in this moment, was much more cat than he was man.

She thought she should be bothered–disrupted–by this, by an unknown _nekomata_ showing up on her doorstep and her letting him, knowing nothing of him, especially not how he even came to _exist_; she wasn't. She thought of her father, of all the lectures he had given her, as a child and as a teenager as well as a young woman, about strangers and boys and strange men; it did not affect her a minute in the situation.

Kaito was probably strangest than her father had ever thought she would come to meet with, but this–the tall, nervous body now vibrating with pleasure under her fingers, pressing hot against her side–felt right, wholly natural.

It was with a sigh that she stood up. Kaito whimpered at the loss when the miraculous fingers were taken away from his ears and hair. "A_-oko…"_

"I'll go make dinner," she said, in a tone clearly boding no nonsense. She stretched deliciously; the massage had benefited her as well, apparently. "I've bought fish," she added, smiling down at him.

Kaito immediately hissed in displeasure, and his ears flattened. Aoko stopped short of the door. "… you don't like fish?"

A fierce shake of the head. The tail swished through the hair like a lash.

"I thought cats loved fish."

"I'm not enti_re_ly a cat," he admitted with a feline smirk, his accent making him bump against the four-syllable adverb.

Looking at him now, legs on each side of him as he gazed up at her with his head cocked to the side and one ear perked up, both very _human_ hands pressing onto the blanket, it was impossible to deny he was a man–part cat, but man all the same. Aoko felt her cheeks heat up sensibly, and put it down to mere hunger–or affection, simple genuine affection, whatever.

"… fine. I'll make something else tonight. We can order out." His responding smile was bright as the lamplight falling all over him, swathing him in gold while she was dampened out by the darkness of the adjacent room, and she scowled a little, unable to control the warmth that furled and unfurled quietly in her chest. "But from tomorrow on, you're having what I'm having."

"Okay!" he said happily, scrambling off the bed to follow her into the living-room and over to the phone, fussing all over her as she made her call.

She made him stay in the kitchen when she answered the deliveryman. He came out again as soon as she closed the door, and watched curiously while she unpacked the food, but he had no idea how to use the chopsticks. She let him use a spoon for the soup and his fingers for the course of pork he had demanded, watching as he distractedly licked sour sauce off his fingers.

It was clumsy, but adorable. She found her lips twitching, while he fished in the bowl for more rice.

"Aah, be careful! Use the spoon for that!"

After dinner she gave him the ball of yarn she had bought at lunchtime–not on purpose at all, she had had no idea there was a pet store by her college and she'd only noticed it today, and she'd had time on her hands and had had to say to the friend who was eating out with her that no, she hadn't bought a cat, her neighbour had asked her to keep hers before she'd left in vacation to the isles–and tried not to smile as he batted thoughtfully at it, this visibly being very serious business.

The ball escaped him and rolled away from him, slowing down by where Aoko's bare feet were dangling down from the couch.

Kaito made a soft noise and crouched up on all fours, limbs long and jean-clad and mastered, moving confidently, slited eyes narrowed on the ball.

Aoko breathed in, waited until his attention was focused on the ball and the ball only, and swiftly kicked it away from the couch.

Kaito pounced.

She laughed, played with him a few minutes more, and then, leaving him to his game, climbed back up on the couch and switched on the TV. The weather. Cold and sunny; the temperatures were expected to warm up during the next few days. The news; murder in the 3rd district–

It wasn't long until Kaito tired out of the ball and clambered up on the couch also. He began nuzzling her immediately, nudging his nose into her neck and against her hair, nibbling at her skin with rather sharp teeth.

She pushed him away. "What the–what do you think you're doing? I said you keep your hands to yourself–"

"My hands are on my lap," he breathed out, and she couldn't help a shiver. "A-o-ko, pet me again…"

… okay that did not even bear thinking about. She had better grant him that pleasure–part-cat, he was part-cat, he had no second-thoughts at all–and not think about how… stupidly… _erotic_ that had sounded. She was the one with the naughty mind here. He was not–he did not think about–

Oh, screw it.

Her fingers found their place in his hair rapidly again, rubbing absently at the soft spot that had him mewling with pleasure. He was purring quite loudly against her neck, a low, mellow rumble in the back of her throat that vibrated in soft puffs of breath against her skin. They watched TV together, though he probably did not understand half the things they were saying; he was on a quick way to snoozing.

"That show's really rotten," she murmured, in a faint effort to restore somewhat of the day before yesterday's reality.

"Hmmm. Don't stop," Kaito sighed, nuzzled her cheek, then licked it, and there went that attempt. His tongue was a little on the rough side, very much like a cat's would be.

He fell asleep on her quickly enough. A catnap, she thought fondly, watching him and stroking still the side of his ears, and reached out to catch the remote and switch the TV off. Her fingers lingered. He was still purring, even in rest.

Only now could she allow herself to wonder at what had brought them there. She had no clue as to how a nekomata could even exist, much less stray–_naked–_all the way to her doorstep, but right now, the two of them dozing off on her couch, she figured it didn't matter so much.

"I don't know who you lived with before," she murmured in his hair, nuzzling it, half asleep herself. Her fingers rubbed his ear gently, "but you're _mine_ now."

The long, soft black tail coiled sleepily around her leg.

-

**… aaaaand I think this officially proves that I need to buy myself a life. Vacation will be the death of me. Also, every time I try to write a short story, it expands dramatically. –sighs– it was fun to write, though. I really don't know if there'll be a sequel or whatever, but knowing my muse, there very well might be. –pats–**

**Um. Next is Sands And Sands, I promise. –cookies–**


	15. What You Have Tamed

**A/N: So, um, I'm nineteen today. You might have noticed *still in shock* seriously, guys, thanks so much. This means a **_**huge**_** lot to me. *loves you all* oh, and have some nekomata!Kaito to celebrate too :3**

**Dedicated with many thanks and cookies to Halfling Rogue, for her stack of cat-related data. So, so helpful it's been–and it'll be, heh.**

**Disclaimer–I'll give them back when I'm finished playing with them. Honest. *pulls out cat-ears and cat-tail***

**-**

**What You Have Tamed**

**-**

_'You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.'_

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, _Le Petit Prince_

-

"Kaito. Stop it."

No answer.

"_Kaito."_

No ans–

"KAITO. Stop staring. It's _creepy_," she hissed, focusing best as she could on the salmon she was chopping off, and tried very hard not to jump when two clever, clever arms sneaked their way around her waist. "_Kaito!"_

His tail curled around her leg, running along the jean material with lazy, content slowness. "But I'm bo-o-ored," he complained easily, clutching her waist. His nose nudged its way in the crook of her neck as he peered interestedly at what she was fixing. "Ew, salmon."

"It's not for you," she snapped. "I bought you onigiri, but I need to finish this before I heat the miso soup and you're annoying and I don't have time to cuddle and just, just go in the living-room," she insisted, shaking him off.

His arms uncurled from around her, taking his warmth away. "Aoko–"

"And don't think about coming back in here before I tell you you can," she added with a stern look, smacking his chest with the spatula. "Just turn on the TV or something."

She half-expected him to whine and try and snuggle again, but as she fully turned to him now, dropping the knife on the chopping board, he remained standing a few steps away, hands buried in his jeans pockets. One cat ear was cocked to the side, twitching slightly.

"What?"

His lips curled in a smile. "Nothing!" he chirped, happily, and trotted off into the living-room without further ado.

Aoko stared after him. Over the last month, Kaito had not wasted one opportunity to snuggle, and today of all days had been one of her heaviest this year, college-wise at least. She had returned home exhausted and sour, two hours after her usual time, only to be tackled to the floor by one very grumpy and frustrated nekomata.

She Had Not Been Pleased.

(… and man, did those jeans fit him.)

And then fixing dinner. And fish. And him latching onto her shoulder, trying to watch what she was doing, which was–in more than one way–very cute, but just as equally irritating. She had banned him as far as the table – he had immediately proceeded to stare.

(Why did that tail dangle down his legs _just_ so…)

It had become frighteningly mundane, this routine they put up every night. Some evenings she would just let him–his body, after all, was warm and comfortable in a hug, and fit against her in the exact manner of that of a cat, albeit somewhat larger–but tonight was–just not the night.

(She needed to stop thinking that way.)

But as she returned into the living room some minutes later, having finished off the salmon and set up the rice cooker, she did not find him, as expected, curled up on the couch, gazing at some TV show. The TV was off. He had, apparently, noticed the china dog that stood by it, dignified in its miniature representation, and was sitting on his hind legs, tail flicking, ears a little flat, engaged in a staring contest.

She wasn't sure he was winning.

"Alright," she said, moving closer to the couch herself, and he turned immediately, pinning her with a smile, his hands flat on the floor. "If you want to cuddle, it's now or never. I'll have to work on my history thesis after dinner–wah! _Kaito!"_

He'd pounced.

She found herself on the couch with a rather enthusiastic cat-man on top of her, all long limbs and lanky legs and surprisingly strong arms as he pressed her against the cushions. His head came to ledge itself in the crook of her neck again, and when he spoke up it was with a slightly outtake of breath, which slithered on her nape and left with a shiver that sounded almost like a laugh.

"You smell good," he whispered, and nuzzled her hair, once, twice, three times and then again, making soft, nearly inaudible sounds almost in the shell of her ear.

Aoko did her best not to blush. Her hands came around him to hug his waist, not as hesitantly as she used to; they were getting comfortable in their new roles. It wasn't a matter of owning or being owned, she had been quick to realize, as Kaito might have feline genes, but he certainly did not behave as a pet–save the cuddling. And the food.

He knew to read and write, she had found. Count also, though the most complex operations were out of his reach. This made it easier to busy him with, as it would have proved difficult to keep him inside without distraction; but despite his usual hyperactive behaviour around her, he could immerge himself in books and TV shows, and had not yet expressed any direct wishes to go out from time to time.

She tried not to think about what would happen–what she'd _say–_when he'd finally ask. How could one conceal cat ears and a tail in Ekoda?

Kaito whined and fidgeted on top of her, obviously irritated by the lack of attention. With a slight grin, she lifted her hands to his ears, scratching them automatically, and a long, pleasured purr built in his throat, vibrating softly against her skin. He let out a short laugh, rubbing his head back in her hand. Her fingers tangled with black hair.

Such moment were not uncommon between them now, and she thanked Kami she was used to visiting friends rather than have them visit her, for how would she explain this to anybody? She'd been lucky enough to have managed to lock Kaito in the bedroom when the custodian had come up to talk two weeks before.

Still, she liked those moments. She liked the long-limbed weight on top of her, the raspy quality of his accent-heavy voice, the rough fabric of his clothes coupled with the soft, soft ears and tail. She liked the _life_ Kaito had brought into her life, and the animation he always provided her with–even though that animation sometimes expressed itself through destroyed living-rooms.

So at the end of the day, they'd plop down on the couch and cuddle. Sometimes the TV would be on, but neither of them would really listen. (Since Kaito had appeared in her life, Aoko found the TV wasn't really as fascinating as she'd once thought it was.) They'd be silent (for the most part–Kaito would always purr in her neck, or make quiet almost meows-like sounds) and, sometimes, when he nuzzled her in _that_ particular way, she'd laugh and drop a kiss on top of his head.

She was somewhat curious, though, tonight. So far, her petting Kaito had not gone any farther than ear-scratching and rubbing down his back, but she had never adventured herself as far as the tail; due to some rather unpleasant experiences with her neighbour's cat when she was seven. But Kaito's tail–coiled around her leg, tickled her face, flicked on her bare skin when he sometimes came to wake her up in the morning. Surely it couldn't be any wrong–

She let her hand trail down from his head–he whimpered a little at the loss, but didn't otherwise protest–down shoulderblades to the small of his back. No particular reaction. She strayed all the way down to his tail, and brushed hesitant fingers against it.

He froze.

After a second he nuzzled her again, but she thought his breath came out harder and shallower. She stroke it against, this time a little more firmer, hoping he'd tell her if it hurt someway or oth–

He moaned, quite heavily too, and lifted himself on his hands, staring down at her. His eyes, she saw, were impossibly dilated and a dark, dark blue, slited pupils throbbing wildly as they found hers.

"Kaito…" she uttered; her voice was airy and uneasy; uncertain grounds. "Are you okay? I didn't–" a frown, "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

His face scrunched up and he bit his lip, but shook his head and let himself nestle back down into her shoulder. "No," he breathed there. "Do-do it again."

She did, though more hesitantly this time, and unsure of his reaction, curl her fingers around the black, silky tail, and rubbed it once.

The reaction was instantaneous. His frame was racked with a violent shiver, and with a whimper he pulled away hurriedly, entangling his limbs from hers in a haste that was almost painful, and with a glance that was inhumanely blue, he curled up on the other end of the couch. She thought his shoulders were trembling.

"Ka-Kaito," she said, now flustered and on the verge of being sick. "I–I'm sorry…"

He shook his head vehemently.

"Then what?" She crawled closer, pulled him in her arms again; he let her, hesitant but obviously needing it. "Did I scare you? What happened?" she nudged her nose against his hair, hoping he'd say something, do something–_any_thing to break the tension this had instituted between them.

"Nothing," he whispered, and licked her cheek for emphasis; nipped at her jawline. "'S nothing."

She sighed, and cradled him against her until he relaxed, until his arms curled around her as well, and they cuddled again, albeit this time in a sitting position. "Don't scare me like that," she chuckled, after a while. Hers was still a tentative voice, but as he didn't protest, it took on firmness. "I'll bet you'll be so restless tonight you'll ask to sleep in my bed again." She forced his face out of the crook of her neck where it had buried itself, and watched him severely. "You always find a way to curl yourself around me when you do that."

–and the kitchen began to bleep.

"The rice!" Aoko yelped, and was off the couch and out of the room in no time.

Kaito sighed softly, watching her go, and curled his tail back to him with a thoughtful look. _That was unexpected_, his eyes seemed to say to it, amusedly, and he sprawled out over the couch all over again, burrowing his face in his folded arms. His tail flicked over his legs, the memory of her caress still running through it. _Hmm._

He watched Aoko come and go from the kitchen to the table, hissing as the rice bowls stung her palms, and sticking burnt fingers in her mouth. She cast him a smile as she passed for the third time, walking off to get the onigiri.

_Don't laugh_, his eyes said, watching her from behind black bangs. _In sleep you always reach out for me first._

-

**Before anyone asks, no, there's nothing wrong with Kaito's tail. It's just oversensitive. Hee hee.**

**And because butterfly-chan is an awesome, lovely, lovely friend (and this is the ****third**** birthday present, dear, I'll get it back on you, seriously), she's written me an omake for this, also based off the first prompt. *glomps her and offers cookies to the whole cook– I mean, party* Here goes–**

-

She knew, when she arrived one late afternoon tired after long hours of studies at her university, that something should be done about the nekomata living with her. Her eye twitched once again at the sight of her living room… her _destroyed_ living room. Scratched furniture, ripped cushions, stains on the carpet that seemed to lead to the kitchen… she still wasn't prepared to see what happened _there_…

Yes, something should definitely be done… now!

She saw the bedroom door open, and a bouncing boy with cat ears and tail came out with a big smile.

"A-o-koo!!"

He was just going to latch himself onto her neck when her outstretched hand halted him.

"Kaito…" She started slowly. "What happened to my living room?" She tried to stay calm but she couldn't stop her eyebrow from twitching.

Kaito seemed to sense something was wrong, for his ears flattened a little against his head. "Um…the living room?" He gave the mess a quick look and turned to Aoko. "Nothing. It looks fine to me," he said with a smile.

Aoko exploded.

"What do you mean it looks fine?!" She shouted, making Kaito jump. "It's a mess!! Kaito you destroyed the living room!"

Kaito backed up a little. "Um…really?"

"What do you mean 'really'?! Just look at it!" She turned and started to pick up the ripped cushions. "You shouldn't do that Kaito! Now I'll have to clean all this mess, and I'm really tired from studying all day long!" She was turning around to continue to lecture him when she noticed his expression.

His face was that of a scared child, his lowered eyes full of regret and a bit glassy. His ears were now completely flat against his head and his tail was curved between his legs. She swiftly felt all her anger melt away at his sight, and she was now the one feeling sorry for shouting at him in that way. How could she stay angry when he was looking _that _cute?

Aoko took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. "Look, Kaito, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have reacted that way." She saw him slowly lift his eyes at her. "But you really shouldn't have done that, its bad, okay? Try to be more responsible and cooperative next time, yes?" she said with a gentle voice and finished her sentence with a soft smile.

To emphasize that she had forgiven him she lifted her hand and scratched one of his ears, which resulted in a long and soft purr from his part. Kaito, to let her know he understood, nuzzled her cheek with his nose and liked it with affection. She knew he had innocent intentions while doing so, but still she couldn't help but blush at his way of thanking her.

The next day, Aoko was showering while humming softly in a very good mood. She had saved what she could from her living room, which was very little, and remembered with a smile how eager had been Kaito to help her. Hopefully she wouldn't have any more problems like that…

She turned off the water and slid the curtain of the showerplace, only to come face to face with an outstretched hand holding a white fluffy towel. Her reaction was immediate; she grabbed the towel with a shriek, covered her body with it at full speed and glared at the cat-boy standing in front of her with a grin.

"What are you doing here?! I told you are not allowed to come in here while I am using it!!" she shouted with a very noticeably red face.

Kaito continued to smile innocently. "But A-o-koo! You told me to be more responsible and cooperative! Well, I'm helping you!" As soon as he finished speaking he quickly went to grab her hair brush and offered it to her with a goofy grin. "You use this thing too, right? I watched you before."

Aoko sighed and tried to calm her nerves once again. _'Remember, he's not like you Aoko… He doesn't think like that…'_

"Ne, Aoko… Doesn't it bother you to be all wet? I don't like it…"

Aoko face palmed.

**-**

***loves over* your Kaito is more boyish than mine… but man, isn't he cute. :33**

**In other news.**

**LUUUUUUUUUUPIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIN the third.**

**That is all.**


	16. No Raining Stars

**A/N: So okay, I have a ton of requests to fill. B-but it's **_**vacation **_**for me, and this plunnie just **_**begged**_** to be written and my muse was sitting on the desklamp and kicking me and. Well.**

**Dedicated to foxglove-chan, because I was listening to that amv of yours non-stop while writing this and damnit I love it. *hugs***

**Disclaimer–I wish Gosho-sensei would give us this one day.**

**-**

**No Raining Stars**

**-**

She comes home to find Kaito's shoes sagely stored on the shelf and all the lights turned off.

She pauses, blinks, lets down her bag in the entry, and advances. "Kaito," she calls, softly, and pushes the living-room open. No light here either, but the blue-tinged light filtrating through the curtains shades the furniture, as bulky masses, with calligraphy strokes.

Kaito, a dark form on the couch, is lying on his side, one arm thrown sideways over his face. He does not stir, even when Aoko, having disposed of her coat on a helpful chair, crawls up onto the couch as well, making it creak under their combined weight.

His face in sleep is peaceful, underlined in greys and blues, and the dark lines of the nose, the jawline, the black crops of hair tumbling wildly over a relaxed, unworried forehead.

_Kaito_, she thinks, and trails her fingertips over a sharp cheekbone, traces the skin and the half-parted lips, fleetingly.

"Kaito," she murmurs, and this time he does stir, and eyelashes flutter under her hesitant touch. Eyes of blue, blue, even more so in the shaded, shuttered room, gaze up at her dazedly, and the smile she finds in them softens the corners of his mouth.

"Welcome home," he murmurs. His voice is thin, albeit pleasantly so; an exhaled breath. His eyes fall shut again.

She does not say _what are you doing on the couch with all the lights turned off_ or _how about dinner_, but her fingers dance up to the stray locks of hair, and, leaning down, she presses a kiss to the side of his mouth. Their noses brush, and he nudges hers with his own, catches the tip with a peck of his lips.

Her one hand sets to run through his hair, relishing in the thin, part-soft part-rough feel, while the other cups his cheek and then settles in the warm crook of his neck, limp and easy. "Like that?"

"Hmm," he purrs, noncommittally, but presses up to rub back against her hand.

For a long time they do not move. His hand is resting in her lap, her fingers running in his hair, both equally warm and sharing that warmth; for once not caring about the daily routine of making dinner and watching TV, and content, to just acknowledge those small blessings that pass.

When Kaito's eyes blink open once more Aoko does not notice. She has rested her cheek against the cushions, still petting his hair, and therefore does not see the fond look that settles in the blue before, dislodging her fingers from the crook of his neck, he presses his lips to them.

"Hmmm?" Her head turns a little to look at him.

He smiles, soft and thankful, and closes his eyes again. "Marry me," he whispers.

Aoko's fingers still. Kaito's lips linger on the knuckles of her other hand, but he doesn't–he– "Really?" she stammers, her voice a little higher-pitched than usual, and when he gazes up at her again and speaks, his is lower in comparison.

"Yes, really–" His arms uncurl from around her waist, and he straightens, taking his warmth away. Aoko's hand falls down on the seat. He chuckles, "That isn't really how I meant this to happen."

His fingers, this time, find their way between two locks of her hair, tips grazing against the side of her cheek. "I'd planned impossible things–floating candles, a thousand doves, raining stars… 'had the ring since high school anyway…"

He opens his (empty) hand on a simple gold band nestling a gem as blue as his eyes, as blue as her name. "Well?" he asks–almost–she thinks–expectantly–fearfully.

–and then her arms are wrapped tight around his shoulders and her face is buried in the fabric of his shirt and she is shaking, helplessly happy and scared shitless because of it, mumbling incoherencies in his neck; and Kaito, stunned for the barest moment, embraces her in return, pressing their bodies flush against the other, and he is trembling too and _oh, I love you, I love you, I _love_ you_ she thinks, breathless and relieved, and doesn't quite know if she says it or not but one of his hands runs up her back to tangle with her hair, close and intimate and _there_.

No words are spoken (_thank you, thank you, I love you, let's get married and fight and shout and laugh)_, and that makes it as close to perfection as they ever care to be.

-

**Short and fluffy all around. I feel rather warm. Next is teachers!AU, dun dun. Also, Happy Easter to those who do celebrate it out there!**


	17. And Close To Windfall

**A/N: (So I lied. Teachers!AU is being stubborn, Fishy Antics is doing smoothly, One For Sorrow has now hit a rather worrying case of writerblock. I'm taking a break.)**

**Hmm. This was widely inspired by katiesparks, in two occurrences—her ghost!Kaito, for one, and her Shinichi-in-a-yukata, for another. Of course I had to go with Kaito in a yukata, then. And, well, we might as well take the 'phantom thief' epithet half-literally from time to time, no? *gets tomato-splattered***

**… hope you like this anyway, Katie-chan.**

**Disclaimer—what I do own is an extended liking of Aoyama's and Miyazaki's respective works. One is an inspiration, the other the material. Or vice-versa. Whatever.**

**-**

**And Close To Windfall**

**-**

The house was medium-sized, flat and large on its base, a little way from the village, and surprisingly western-styled. There were hand-made embroidered curtains hanging in the nearest window; thin enough to let the early September sun flood in, but white enough to conceal the room to the exterior eye. When she touched the bell, the note rang high-pitched and diffuse, waning quickly in the summer air.

The door was opened mere seconds later, after a rapid and short shuffling of socks on a parquet, by a boy of six or seven, who looked at her through thick, enormous black-mounted glasses. "Hello," said he, and his voice was surprisingly calm and poised for a child that young. "You are Nakamouri Aoko?"

Aoko blinked and smiled, and crouched down to his level. "Yes," she said. "Is Mouri Ran here?"

More feet-shuffling. "Conan-kun! Who was at the door—oh."

For a moment two near-identical faces looked at each other.

The recovery was quick on both sides. Mouri Ran extended a hand and offered a smiled, both of which were duly accepted by Nakamouri Aoko, who returned them. "How do you do? I am Mouri Ran—we talked on the phone—and this is Edogawa Conan-kun."

"Nice to meet you both. I am Nakamouri Aoko. I am so sorry to be this late, Mouri-san—I said I would be here around three, but—the trip proved out to be longer than what I expected."

"It's perfectly okay. I would stay at home all afternoon long anyways. Do you want to come in and refresh yourself? or do you prefer going straight to the house?"

Aoko glanced back on her tiny blue car, parked a little way downward, packed all over with most of her belongings. The futon took the best of the space, whichever way she tried to squeeze it in, and she'd crammed in everything else in the corners. "I think I'd rather unpack first and be done with it."

Mouri Ran laughed. "Of course. Shall I show you the way? It's only a five minutes' drive. Conan-kun, stay inside. I'd best climb in with you, if you don't mind," she added, as they made their way down the slope and back to the car. "It'll spare me the trouble of opening the garage."

Ran's directions, surprisingly, led them not back to the village, as Aoko had vaguely expected, but further down the road (which quickly became of earth and stones, and not of concrete), into a grove that rustled on each side of the car's wings, branches and wilting leaves; and then, past an arcade of green and sudden gold, in a flurry of sprinkling gravel, onto open space. Long grass, wild and unkempt, started down.

This second house was also very flat and large on its base, and this second story must be nothing more than an attic or a storeroom, but its style was strictly Japanese, and quite old by the look of it. Tides of incense and wood wafted from it, off the porch, the long sliding panels, the skewed roof, and behind it the forest in shades of dark to light green backed it, cast it in the scenery.

"What do you think?" Ran asked, mildly.

And Aoko realized she had now exited the car, one hand kept on the door, and was somewhat staring. She recoiled. "It's a beautiful house," she said, and let the door snap shut under her fingers. "But I am amazed at its being so large. The rent is rather low in comparison." She laughed, to diffuse the awkwardness of this last remark, "Are you sure I did not miss a digit?"

"Certain," said Ran, stepping out of the vehicle also. "We have kept it low for several reasons. People usually do not want to live there." She hesitated, stole a glance in Aoko's direction. "After all, it is rather an ancient house."

"I like it," Aoko said.

"I'm glad to hear it. It may be old, it has all the modern appliances. Townsfolk—" Ran smiled, and stopped short of townsfolk. "The keys—this one opens the front door, this the back one—" she pointed at the bushes at the side of the house, grazing down stone steps, "you might want some pruning in that corner to get easy access to it­­—and these two small ones are for the attic. Do you want help with your stuff?"

Aoko accepted the smile, accepted the keys, accepted the help. They were half into carrying her futon in the (square-shaped, shoji-sided) bedroom when Ran added, "When do you begin at the library?"

The question, which Aoko had not been expecting, took her somewhat by surprise. "Day after tomorrow," Aoko replied automatically. She heaved the futon down with deliberate slowness. "I figured I might want a short delay to settle in."

Ran's smiles, she reflected, were of those that broke through the clouds and warmed one's heart. "I thought so. Tomorrow's marketday. You might come with me—I would introduce you."

This was a relief. She had rather dreaded this entrance. "I would like that very much," she admitted, meeting Ran's smile with one of her own, though, she felt, much less beautiful in all its sincerity. Futon was set down, against a panel, ready to be unrolled. A window opened on the opposite side of the room; and as she looked, while working on the straps, it fogged up, exactly—she thought, one second mesmerized—as though a breath had fallen down on the glass, someone looking in from outside.

Aoko frowned, still kneeling.

"Aoko-san?" called her landlady, from the door.

They went down to the car.

-o-

They were nice people, she reflected, later that evening (in the kitchen, heating up instant ramen). The hour she had spent at their place, drinking lemon tea, had been agreeable and pleasurable. Ran's father may be a little on the do-nothing-drawl-around side, and the little boy they took care of was clearly a genius for his age, and as such a little disconcerting; but Ran was nice and cheerful, and would probably grow to be a good friend.

(There was a sad edge of her, however, which Aoko couldn't quite puzzle out; but she contemplated it as an aspect of the other woman's life she would come across some later day.)

As for the house—well, it was the sort of place she had dreamt to live in as a child; though that wish had rather gotten stranded in-between her Tokyo life and her accelerating work basis. But now that it surrounded her, wide and not too wide, rustling with the sounds of wind over the forest, it seemed to swell around her evening with a sort of breathless thankfulness.

She took the ramen out and exited the kitchen with its steaming cup, but let the light on, a cream-coloured glow on the shoji panels. She, instead of settling down at the low table, stepped out on the porch and sat cross-legged against one wooden post, still clad in the jeans and t-shirt she had adopted to travel.

She was clumsy at first, still and stiff in the unfamiliarness of a new place. There was nothing reassuring in the great waves of dark green that created the forest circle around the house; and even the known warmth and feel of Tokyo-bought ramen still felt stranger between her hands, on her tongue. But as the moment passed and the dusk blues impressed on her, her minding waning, she began so relax, limbs less constricted.

It was a warm evening-soon-to-be-night, still twined in the tangles of Summer, even though August had faded long ago and September was now well-passed. The lamps from inside the house only did so much to light on the grass Aoko's feet were grazing, dangling down from the wooden slats; and beyond the clearing was shaded until it faded in greyed darkness. Beyond that even, the car were a mere frame, hardly distinguishable in the dimness, and above the great tress rocked black against the still-clear sky.

Steam was rising regularly from Aoko's ramen, and she blew on it while eating, hissing a little at her slightly burnt fingers.

Moths, she remarked, had grouped around the lamp overhead; they were a moving blur surrounding the gold source. Aoko contemplated them for a long moment, wondering how this light was seen from a little distance—from her car, or from Ran's house, if they could see between the trees. A light—a spot of ever-mobile gold—in the tumbling darkness, soft on the shoji panels as that of a candle, casting elongated shadows on the grass, their grey fading to black. And then, because one thought led effortlessly to another, she wondered what _she_ must look like, in her lounging position against the post in her jeans and t-shirt as she absently ate ramen. As such she saw herself from some outward eye, and slowly it wasn't this house that was strangest at all.

And as the thought processed there was a great, violent rustle, a brief gush of wind, and she turned to find all but one of the shoji doors closed—

—those she and Ran had slung open just hours earlier to let the house breathe, and which she had since not seen fit to close.

It startled her. The moment, now broken, left. She remained, watching them for a good minute, wondering. Of course, the only plausible explanation was the wind. A great gust and—_blam—_and evidently this was a very windy place.

But the move had been too sudden, too fast; and the panels were completely shut, not just halfway. This was intriguing—enough to defy coincidence and start finding explanations that dwelled in another realm altogether—

But eventually her interest faded, and the strength of the night and the forest overpowered her again. She turned back, absently laying her bowl to the side, half-eaten, and in one of these states of mind, which after a great emotional turmoil, suddenly appease and calm, she learnt to appreciate again the quiet of the evening and the tall green trees, and wondered whether the cicadas might still be coming out.

-o-

The next day she put on a skirt. It turned out to be a mistake. The morning was a clear, white blue, fresher than she had expected after the evening's diffuse warmth, and when Ran honked up at her from the road the wind amused itself in playing hide-and-seek with the long folds of the skirt as she came down to meet her.

"They might joke you around a little," Ran warned, as they drove to the village. "It is their way to be friendly with strangers."

On the backseat, Conan snorted.

It was, come as it may, a pleasant morning. The village was neat and fine in the sun (it must look, Aoko reflection,, much more of a muddle under the rain) and she took the merchants' jokes with no ill-humour. The morning and the weather pleased them all. From a few she received a discount; 'to celebrate her arrival,' they said; and one woman offered her a free sack of rice. Aoko, flushed with pleasure and animation, laughed and talked and followed Ran around, grateful for the distraction.

They didn't only meet sellers, however. Ran made the introduction, with the amiable smiles that seemed to belong to her only.

"That was Azuki-san, a waitress at the streetcorner's café—café Poirot, they make delicious coffee if you're ever out of it—oh, hello, Takagi-keiji, Satou-keiji! —our local inspectors, they're both very nice. Their superior, Megure-keibu, is a friend of my father's… hullo! Eisuke-kun!"

"Ran-kun, good morning!"

"Hakase," Ran said, her smile growing a tad more genuine. "Good morning! This is Nakamouri Aoko, whom we're letting the old house to. Aoko-san, this is Agasa Hiroshi. He is my best friend's next door neighbour," she explained, with a flush that told Aoko exactly how much of a best friend that was.

Aoko folded her hands over her basket. "Pleased to meet you, Agasa-san."

"Pleased to meet you as well, Nakamouri-san." He was looking between them. "The two of you are remarkably alike. Are you related?"

"Not that we know of," Ran laughed. They had discussed it over the evening before, over lemon tea as the evening fell in blue, lukewarm curtains around the Mouri home. The matter, however, was not taken any further. With a great cry of _Conan-kun!_ four children flung themselves on them.

No, Aoko corrected, once passed the first moment of dizzy bewilderment, three only did. The fourth, a girl with ash blonde hair and a disinterested air, walked up by Agasa's side and glanced quizzically up at her.

Once all the entangled limbs had been disentangled and gathered by their respective owners, the children turns out to be Ayumi-chan, Genta-kun, and Mitsuhiko-kun, all of them smiling and cheery, and very eager to know why Ran-neechan had never told them she had a twin sister.

"I am not Ran-san's twin," Aoko clarified, crouching down to talk to them without getting an awful crank in the neck. "I'm renting the house up by the forest, in the clearing. I've only just arrived."

To her surprise, they all gasped. The fourth just looked bored. Before she could understand, they were talking again, but so fast that only a word in ten reached her brain; even though they were following they were following the exact same train of thought, which somewhat moulded their indistinct rambling in form and sense.

"—can't live there—"

"­—don't you _know?"_

"—that house is _haunted!"_

"Of course it's not," Conan-kun said, in that calm, serious voice which seemed to be as essentially his as Ran's smiles were hers. "Haunted houses do not exist. It's only a rumour," he said, glancing explicitly at Aoko.

"It's true!" exclaimed Mitsuhiko-kun, all red in the face.

"It's true!" echoed Genta-kun, hands fisted.

Ayumi-chan looked ready to echo the echo, and it might very likely have finished in cried, or, alternatively, a fight, had not Ai-chan (still looking bored) yawned and said, "If we want to go play at Hakase's house before lunchtime, we'd better hurry. It's almost noon."

And with that, and without any further ado, all children were run away, trailing bewildered-looking Agasa and deadpan-looking Conan-kun in tow.

Aoko blinked. Twice. She looked up at Ran, who sighed.

"I'd hoped that you wouldn't hear that on your first morning," she said, helping her up. "I wanted you to get a little used to the house before—" she dropped off, and handed Aoko her basket. "It is true that there are rumours—countryfolk like to talk. They will say that your house is caught under the protection of a kindly _kami._" (What she did not add, but that Aoko understood fairly well, was that the _kami_ was free to decide whether the current inhabitant of the house pleased it or not.) "Of course, it _is_ only gossip that has it," she added firmly, picking up her groceries.

"I'm not superstitious," Aoko murmured, only half truthful. "Is that why no one in the country would rent the house?"

Ran left her at her own house, Aoko having assured her that she could go on the rest of the way alone, and no, the groceries weren't that heavy at all. But as she emerged from under the bent arcade of branches, one bag slung over her shoulder, soaked in green and gold shade, and walked up the grass to her house, the wind flew right through the leaves' tunnel she had just left and blew her skirt sky high.

Halted, startled, bewildered, Aoko nearly dropped her basket. She gathered the cream-coloured folds back to her legs, blinking hazily at the grass, at the house only ten steps away. And it seemed to her that the wind chuckled.

-o-

The first week passed as eventful as one's first week n a new neighbourhood is expected to. Her first few days working at the local library were a little awkward, but on getting to know the woman who shared her shift (chattery, friendly, pigtailed Momoi Keiko), she found herself blending in rather more easily than she had at first believed.

The children did a great deal to help, as well. They barged in the library immediately after school almost every day, mostly to read detective stories; and told her at great length of the phantom who resided in her house. He loved playing pranks, they said, and trapping humans, and weren't she afraid?

When she told them that she was not, or at least not much, her fame quickly got round the village's circle of children.

"They mean no harm," Agasa-hakase said on the seventh day, as the look at all five children playing soccer (Ai-chan less playing soccer than observing the moves, and Conan-kun leading the game) in Ran's garden. "They're very curious."

"Of course they are," Aoko said, savouring the taste of Ran's excellent lemon tea on her tongue. "They are at that age when you believe in everything and anything."

"When Ran-kun and Shinichi-kun were that age—" and he trailed off with a stray look.

Ran, busy chopping salmon for that day's dinner, cast a look over her shoulder and laughed. "You can go on ahead, Hakase. Aoko-san knows everything about Shinichi. I told her."

She had, Aoko thought, watching the tablecloth, Ran, and the children outside as Agasa-hakase rambled off in a ten-year-old treasure hunt, and, by doing so, had managed not to tell much. Kudo Shinichi, childhood friend, best friend, living next door to the professor, cocky of temper, strong sense of justice that had eventually developed in detecting skills, currently absent from the country—all facts and locations. Ran's sharp, anxious look at the ringing phone had told her infinitely more than all her words had.

Ayumi ran after the ball, and thus ended up at the window, surprising them both.

"Aoko-neesan!" she panted, and picked up her toy. One petite hand came up to grip the white sill, "Have you met the _kami_ yet?"

"Not yet," Aoko laughed. It had become the kids' customary greeting every time they met her. Ayumi pouted, but soon smiled again, and ran off with the ball, her short black hair bibbing around her shoulders. Soon they heard her friends' shouts of _Has she?_ and her cheerful reply, _Not yet, she says!_

"They like you," Agasa-hakase remarked with a smile.

"I'm glad," Ran said, dropping the dripping salad on the chopping board. "It is a good thing when children like you, especially when you've just arrived in a new neighbourhood. Aoko-san?" Aoko had become absorbed.

Agasa-hakase gently touched her shoulder. "Aoko-san, what are you thinking of, looking outside like that?"

"Shoji doors," replied Aoko without thinking, and instantly flushed. "Oh, I'm sorry. I wasn't attending. What did you say?"

"I said, it mustn't always be easy to arrive in a new neighbourhood, is it?"

It was not. By daylight she managed fairly well, and without really meaning to. She had been lucky in her choice. The villagers were friendly, the village itself not unpleasant under the last warmth of fall; she had already made a few friends; and most of the children around liked her. She came home every evening with a smile.

By nighttime, however, things were not so easy. The night forces us with ourselves, and in Aoko's case, more with what she had lost than what she had gained. It was, after all, a rather large house, surrounded by forest, though in one point thin, and nothing at all like the intimacy of her previous lodgements in Tokyo. Lights from the village were few and far between, distant and mobile between the trees.

She was not unhappy at all. But on some evenings a sense of loss and dread would strike her, unrecognizable despite its familiarity, and she would, for one abrupt, painful moment, still.

Those evenings she mostly spent on the porch, sometimes with a book, sometimes just listening. The moths fluttered around the lamp overhead, reflecting small blurs on the golden-tinted grass. Around the forest would never be quite immobile, but swaying and rustling with small, whispery sounds, and Aoko rested her head against the wooden post, and listened.

The radio was muttering bits and pieces, unknown voices that dropped a few (almost-)indistinct words before crackling away. And on and on the words-that-were-not-silence came and faded, shunning lopsidedly into the great void of quiet nights.

The book fell from Aoko's hand in her lap. And slowly, smoothly, without any grand acts of passion or despair, tears rolled down, salty and lukewarm between her lips, and Aoko nestled her head in her folded arms, nudged her noses against her jeans-clad knees.

Minutes passed, clear and sound like piano notes. Then it seemed that some warm material had been lain on her shoulders.

Aoko straightened puzzledly, feeling up her arms. There was nothing there but the thin-soft cotton of her t-shirt. Yet it still felt warm, and fine, and better; exactly as though she had been enveloped in one of those thin, fluffy white towels in the bathroom. The book was laying beside her legs, neatly closed. The radio had been turned off.

Aoko sat there a few minutes more, trying to puzzle it out. Then she went to bed.

It was two mornings after that one evening that she woke to fog on the window and this wide-breathless quality distinct to early awakenings. She tossed for a good half-hour, and then decided that she was not sleepy.

She was not hungry either, she found, straying in and out of the kitchen. The house around spread like an openwinged bird, just alight before taking off again, fluttery. It rippled in blues and whites, paler where the light touched them, eerie and quiet as they unfurled before Aoko's eyes.

It was very calm. She slipped in a robe, relishing in the water-like feel of the folds brushing down her skin, left the living-room, and slid open one of the shoji doors.

A young man was sitting on the porch, leaning back against that wooden post that had become her favourite. He was­—she registered in the brief second of time she was allowed—draped in a yukata that was either light grey or pale blue; his hair surprisingly black against his white skin. And, when surprise tumbled from her lips, he started and looked up at her with eyes that were as wide and blue as the morning sky.

Then he was gone.

-o-

Ran nearly choked on her tea.

"You saw the _kami?"_

"Yes. He—" and here Aoko opened her hands as though on a blossoming flower, to emphasize her point, "sort of disappeared on me this morning. I'd woken early, and he was sitting on the porch…" She thought back, to eyes of cornflower blue that had risen startlingly to her. "I believe he was just as surprised as I was."

Ran blinked very slowly. "What did it look like?"

Aoko frowned. "Like a young man. I think he was supposed to look my age." Again her hands lifted, threading through air in mute demonstration. "Dark-haired, with a pale grey yukata—" Pause; her mouth scrunched up in thought. "It was very strange. One moment he was there and the next he was gone."

"Some men do that," Ran said, with a twitch of her lips.

Aoko cast her a frowning look over the patterned tablecloth. "You don't sound very surprised."

She was not. Countryfolk are more superstitious than townsfolk are, she said. Faced everyday with the small sanctuaries and shrines erected in forests or beside roads, they disregard the rational outlook of technology and science and are prone to quiet beliefs long gone in the largest cities. "Besides," Ran added with a laugh, "my friends have always teased me about my fear of spirits and demons." And then her lips thinned in another smile. "No, I am not surprised."

Of course. Aoko slumped a little. From this morning onwards her mind had been spinning with meanings and illusions. But here there was lemon tea and flower patterns on the tablecloth, and Ran laughed and said she believed—

"What I hope," her landlady was saying, in and through the haze, "is that you won't feel you need to leave the house, Aoko-san."

Aoko marked a short, negative shake of the head. "I don't. I would feel far too stupid. It is just that—" it was just that, that, her words were on the wrong edge, a little too full with water, "It is just that I don't know how to react now. What is one to do in such a situation?"

"He did look friendly, didn't he?"

He didn't look anything. One moment he was there and the next he was thin air. "He was surprised," Aoko said again, and did not feel as though she was repeating herself. "I woke early. He didn't expect me to walk in on him. He really was just sitting on the porch," she said, a little lamely, in lieu of an explanation.

Ran had the look of one secretly smiling. "And you don't want him out of your house?"

"I—no—is that even possible?" Aoko amended helplessly, and Ran laughed again.

"I doubt it. Well, then, I think the right course of action would be to show the _kami_ that you have no ill-intentions. You could say a prayer to him tonight, or perhaps make an offering."

Images arose in Aoko's mind of local shrines and bald priests, and then altars and flowers. She was not too certain what to say, when Ran stated this as fact with a quiet determination. "Oh. But what kind of—food?" An idea struck her, terrible and petty, somewhat wrapped together. "He wouldn't ask for my blood or something, would he?"

"Nothing so far-fetched as that. A glass of milk will do."

-o-

Granted, she felt a little ridiculous that same evening, as she laid the glass on a windowsill, giving out on the porch. For all she knew, she thought, staring down at it, any stray cat could come and lap at it during the night. It wouldn't be proof of anything at all.

"Um."

She clapped her hands together twice, to recall herself to the serious of the situation at hand. "Um," she said again. (To be truthful, she had never really done this, bar some New Year prayers at the local temple, but that was demanding favours, and this—for some reason, was not.)

She thought instead. (She did feel a little foolish.) _Um. I never really did this sort of thing before, so—well, greetings. I wish you no harm, and I hope that the feeling is returned. I was told to make an offering, so, well, here it is._

A vague gesture at the milk. Again she clasped her hands.

I hope you will enjoy it. It may not be much but—

She broke off. Outside, the night was soft, and a little later than it had been before. As she stepped out on the porch, hesitant and barefoot, the wind tangled around her ankles and in the folds of her thin-draped robe, bringing promises of clean wood and fallen leaves; and, turning back, she saw the square, golden window with the glass of milk.

_I bid you goodnight_, she thought-said, and though her words were formal they held a quiet, austere sincerity.

She bowed then, deeply so, and to what? to the night, to the wind, the hope of fall to come. She bowed and went to bed.

While she slept the night enveloped the house in roaring tides, and with it the clearing and the trees, and below the village lights. Cradled in her nest of covers, Aoko dreamt of pale hands framing her face, and cool lips pressing to her forehead, even as her breathing deepened out to quiet.

In the morning the glass was empty.

-o-

It was three days before the _kami_ manifested itself again. Aoko spent them working late in the afternoon, as children who had gone to school demanded distraction at the library. She returned tired; once had supper at Ran's; played video games with Conan-kun and his little gang. She slept and did not dream.

The third evening was one of blue and black; dark clouds swept over the still-clear sky. The sun had not yet gone, but was invisible below the tall, flowing mass of the trees, and it lit up the horizon, outlining every curve and line with thick, black strokes. Aoko, parking her car at the feet of the slope, saw that the wind had blown the clothes she had hung to dry right off the string; they now lay mindlessly on the grass, each a few feet from another.

She cursed softly, dangled the car keys down her pocket, and set about picking them up. Now she'd have to wash the lot all over again—

She had reached the last-but-one when a minute shiver ran up her neck. She stilled, her back to the house, and then straightened, not quite daring to turn now. She had good idea what the situation was, and thought—her arms laden with clothes, exhausted after the trying day—it wasn't exactly how she had pictured this to go. If at all.

"You can turn around," an amused voice, slightly more playful than she had expected, said. "I will not randomly put a curse on you."

"… that's good to know," she said, slowly, and turned slowly also.

He was, she saw, still dressed in the same yukata, now definitely pale grey in the tilting dusk, and the strong, dying light seemed to thicken and darken every line and shape, anchoring him down where she had first seen him ethereal in the morning, blurry at the edges. His hair was a wild, black halo around his face, and his eyes very blue, focused on hers with a fast determination that caused her to shiver again.

"Good evening," he said, and his voice had turned as smooth as fine water, clear and polished. Aoko shuddered. She bowed low.

"Good evening." She was not too certain what honorific to use, and therefore used none. Ran would have known to the millimetre what and what not to say, probably. As such, however, Aoko meant every word.

She did not really know what she expected by now. The situation as she thought it was had spun stunningly off, spiralling downward even as the last violet hazes of the day faded out and left them drowning in half-blues and half-greys. She felt calm. When all of one's expectations have been turned down one by one, she found, agitation wanes into quiet waiting.

That didn't help the flaring surge of surprise when one pale hand rose to her face. Long fingers grazed her cheek, bony and cool, warming only to her heated skin; and a moment floated. Aoko, by this time, was merely focusing on holding onto the clothes in her arms, feeling them scratchy and familiar as a _kami_'s palm fitted against her cheek.

The caress intensified, and with a jolt she realized she was leaning into the touch.

The _kami_'s hand fell away, and he was close now, so close that his eyes appeared strangely dilated, bluer by night than they had been by day; he was breathing hard. (She hadn't even known _kami_ could.) Presently he stepped back.

And he bowed, bowed low. "Nakamori Aoko. I thank you for your offering."

Aoko balanced between being bewildered by the bow or bewildered by the words for one wondering second, and then settled for simply looking fazed. "—you're welcome."

She blinked at him, almost expecting him to disappear now. He didn't. "Um—it was nothing really. A glass of milk—"

"It was more than I could expect," the _kami_ interrupted. A smile was gracing his lips, his voice much warmer now; and Aoko made a quick note to remember to thank Ran for her suggestion. She smiled back.

"I was going back in," she said, remembering the bundle of cloth and the last shirt on the grass. She picked it up, and stepped hesitantly toward the porch. "I could heat some more milk. Or something else," she added, uncertain.

He looked at her. She stood by the porch, both arms full with clothes in the faint light of the tumbling evening, clearly wondering whether she should ask him or whether he would simply stroll in—

"You really don't know what you are about, do you?" he asked, amusedly.

Aoko couldn't repress a nod. She was mildly panicking, in a calm, eerie sort of way.

"… if you invite me in," the _kami_ said, with only a faint hesitation she wasn't quite sure how to interpret, "it means _inviting me in_. Not merely in the house­—in the human part of it, where our kind do not usually tread. It will signify that I will have open access to both the spiritual and material sides of the house—" the briefest pause, "and everything that is in it."

_Including me,_ Aoko understood. The answer was surprisingly quick and easy to come. The house _had_ been his long before it was hers, after all, and it seemed only fair. For this, and for that other disconcerting thought that had been spinning in her mind, and that had to do with amused smiles and eyes of such, such blue it impeded all breathing, she set the clothes down, and, stepping on the porch, sliding open the shoji,

"Will you come in, then?" she asked, and above saw the wind and the trees in tall green waves.

The _kami_'s eyes softened in that moment it took her to look up. "Yes," he breathed, _"yes,"_ and finally, finally crossed the threshold.

-o-

**Done! *dies***

**-**

**On a side note, you've probably already seen this in katie's **_**Kirby's Corpus, **_**but here goes the announcement: we're planning to send a birthday card to Gosho that would come from the fandom. Anyone interested in adding in a comment can send it via email, plus their penname, to either katiesparks or me. Due date is on June 10th. Oh, and anyone who would know Gosho's adress would be welcome to speak up—we're doing researches but it would be easier for us that way.**

**Announcement ended. Thankyou.**


	18. Silence The Pianos

**A thousand apologies for the delay here—I've gone through a sort of weird… writing crisis of sorts, which made me quite unable to write anything for the fandom these last few weeks. In the end I typed this, which was actually written before said crisis, but whose atmosphere rather echoes my own feelings right now. Hope you'll like it.**

**(and yes, gems, this ****_is_ Aoko-POV, shuddup)**

**Also, I don't own Magic Kaito. (Well, obviously.)**

-

**Silence the Pianos**

**-**

'_Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,_

_Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,_

_Silence the pianos and with muffled drum_

_Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.'_

—W.H. Auden, _Funeral Blues_

_-_

She turned off the stove, turned off the gas, turned off the lights. She grabbed her bag on the deep green armchair, pulled on her coat that held about her like a fallen leave, and, as she turned to go, looked around for the note that would tell her father wither she had gone—why the house would be dark and cold when his key turned in the lock.

There it was, a lonely yellow slip by the phone pick-up, scribbled a few lines dark with her handwriting, for her father to find when he came home tonight. If he came home tonight.

It would be enough, surely. He wouldn't conduct a country-wide search for her in the next twelve hours. And she would only be gone a day, maybe—at worst—two. With these thoughts in her mind, more or less satisfied, she turned to leave, past the door and into the rapidly falling evening.

"And how exactly did you intend to get there?" Kaito's voice said softly.

(He was leaning against one of the porch's posts, hands stuck in his jacket pockets, looking for all the world as though he had been waiting here for ages already and would not be much disturbed by continuing.)

Aoko grabbed instinctively onto her bag as though on a lifesaver. "What are you doing here?" she asked, and hardly recognized her voice, thin and defiant as it was. For one fantastic moment, the thought that, maybe, her father had asked him to vigil her did cross her mind.

It was stupid, of course, and she instantly dismissed it as such. "Keeping an eye out," he replied, and the near-indistinct cheerful tilt, like thin silk, in his voice reassured her a little. "How _did _you intend to get there? On foot?"

He did not say how he had learnt where she was going and she did not think it worthwhile to ask. Knowing Kaito, anyway, it was probably via some sneaky, underhanded way. "I'm taking a _bus_," she said defensively. "It's leaving in half an hour."

He nodded. "I know. I looked it up. It's also leaving you halfway there, and then what? you'll hitch-hike the rest of the way?"

"Probably," Aoko said, with a shrug whose carelessness she was far from feeling.

"Well, you're not." The tone was firm. "I took a day off and borrowed mom's car. C'mon."

It took her a few seconds to understand what exactly he was meaning, and when she did she said blankly, "Are you sure? it's a long way. We'll have to drive through the night."

He rolled his eyes. "Obviously. What are you standing here like a penguin for? c'mon, or we'll never make it to the highway by nightfall." He grabbed her hand and led her away, led her astray, and the warmth in his fingers, his fine magician's fingers, was such that she didn't even think of protesting—nor of resisting. Kaito swept her clear off her feet, the way he always did, always had, the way he had that first evening at the clock tower.

--

They did reach the highway before nightfall. The last of the day was dying on Tokyo's tall office buildings, gleaming in red-and-gold off the manifold, reflecting windows, each tower mirroring a miniature sunset.

"There's a map in the gloves' compartment," Kaito said, without taking his eyes off the road. A careful, amused smile was poised up at the corner of his mouth, like a small animal. "I looked up the way before coming, but I'd rather not get lost anyway."

Aoko nodded and dove in the gloves' compartment. In it was the map; also a full thermos, two sandwiches, a pocket watch and a brown wallet—presumably Kaito's, unless he had taken to picking pockets without telling her. "You've been preparing for this," she said, wonderingly. "How long have you known about it?"

He shrugged and swept them smoothly onto the highway. "A while," he said, cautiously, it seemed to her. "About two months ago I found a sheet listing the opening hours for that particular cemetery lying on your desk. After that it was only a matter of figuring out when you'd be going. And tomorrow was the most logical, closest, likeliest day."

There was silence after that. Aoko looked down at her hands, which she'd folded neatly on her lap. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you," she said, after a few minutes. "It wasn't exactly something I could pop up in the course of conversation—"

"That's alright," Kaito cut in. He threw her a look. "I'm sorry, too. For butting in like that. But—" some awkwardness passed in his blue eyes, darkened them. "If you'd hitch-hiked like you'd intended, well, you could have met with _any_body. Well-meaning people of course, but there could have been a serial murderer among the lot. Or someone who's throw you in a ditch and rape you." His hands tightened momentarily around the wheel. "I didn't want to risk that. I'd rather stay up the night and be with you." Then he smiled, and his eyes softened again, took on the brief flicker of affection. "I'm aware that's a pretty selfish position."

Aoko smiled. It'd been a while. College and work had pretty much separated them lately, and it'd been a while since the two of them had been able to just talk and be together. Their last mop chase dated back to ages ago. It gave their current conversation a very smooth, nostalgic feel.

He glanced at her. "Maybe you should get some sleep," he remarked. "We _will _drive the night through."

"I'm not sleepy," she protested. "It's barely seven, besides." Then she gave him a stern look. "And don't you even _think_ of driving the night through, man. Tell me when you're tired and I'll relay you."

He grinned. "Alright."

They talked little as the night tumbled down, a great, thick curtain of blue velvet. The road thundered past, alight with the hundred little luminous signs that sided it and the thousand little lamps, red and gold, that belonged to other cars. Kaito moved about and between them with smooth ease, much like—the comparison made her smile—a fish in water. It certainly felt and looked like blue water, blue velvet, cascading down on them, on the horizon.

Aoko, who faced west, waited until the last clar tints of blue had uniformly descended into nighttime, the last clear light of sunset dissolved into the water, and a bridge of dark trees hid the firmament from view, to finally speak up again.

"Kaito."

"Mm." He glanced at her, though briefly, but the familiar, endearing little smile poised up again.

"Do you remember anything about your father at all?"

He sped up and past a charging truck and then switched back onto the lane they had formerly been on, frowning a little. "… define 'remember'."

"Well…" Trust Kaito to avoid all embarrassing answers and bring her to the core of the problem within three seconds of the asking of the question. "It's just that. I don't remember my mother's face," she admitted, plunging. This being said, she corrected it. "Well, of course, we've got pictures, and of course I _know_ what she looks like. But it's just that—an outside phenomenon. It's not my memory of her at all."

He was silent.

"What I do remember of amounts to almost nothing—it's…" she trailed off for a second. "Warmth. And how shiny her hair looked that day when she came to pick me up from school. I don't know why that moment stuck. It's just that," she repeated thoughtfully, looking out toward the embankment of grass and trees, both dark, "the way the light played in her hair."

"… you know," he said, "you were four when she died. It's almost twenty-years ago."

"I know."

"Well." They were gathering speed again, and the car was a purring nest of warmth and comfort and light, enfolding, blanketing them in needed reassurance. You are not alone, it seemed to say, you are safe, you will be safe. You are well. It induced to sleepiness also. "What I remember of my dad—they're mostly moments, too. Books and movies and manga—they show you memories in a succession, in the way of a video reel. But usually they're not. They're most like snapshots—seconds that tricked you into remembering them. I remember," he said, laughing a little, "that mom was telling him he was putting on a little more weight than was strictly necessary, and maybe he should start on a diet. That was a week or so before he died."

Aoko smiled. It was clearly Kaito's aim to distract and amuse her, and he was succeeding. Still, "It just makes me sad to think that I remember so little about her. I'm going to visit her grave."

"I read somewhere," Kaito said gently, "that the dead never stop dying. Because our memory of them wanes out over the years, become yellowed and used, like old photos. Still," he added, this time not looking straight at the road but at it as though across something, "it might be crueller to remember everything about them, every moment, every detail. Because our memories of them are rare and blurred, we realize how precious they are, how important it is to preserve them."

"You did think a lot about it, didn't you?" Aoko asked, surprised; then was ashamed. Kaito's father had died so much more recently than her mother had, and it had been a terrible blow on the little boy he had then been. (Kaito was right about snapshots. Of that night she remembered little; only secluded moments in time: how she and her father and Kaito's mother had looked all over the district for him, the dark groves and the sharp beams of torchlamps, Kaito's tear-streaked face when they had finally found him, and how blue, blue his eyes had been.)

Kaito nodded seriously. "I've come across a lot of—ghosts, you might call them—recently." Then with curling mouth and laughing eyes, "I wonder what your mom would say to you driving the night in a _tiny_ car with a guy who's spent all high school flipping up your skirt."

"Dad's being annoying enough as it is," Aoko muttered.

There was silence at that. When he did speak it was in carefully joking tone, just on this side of mean. "What, so many pretendants already Nakamouri-keibu insists on giving a Chaperone Task Force?"

She scowled at him. "Of course not. Don't be silly," she snapped. "Besides, it's been ages since you haven't looked up my shirt."

"I know. I'm sorry," he said, suddenly abashed. "That's because you don't wear any anymore. Tell you what. When we've both finished with classes this year we'll trek down to the beach sometime. For a day or two, or something. You'll wear a skirt and I'll flip it and you'll chase me with your mop and everything will be alright again."

Aoko blinked. "Is that a date you're suggesting, Kuroba Kaito?"

"Whatever you want to call it," he laughed.

"… alright."

"Yeah?"

"Sure."

He grinned, and squeezed her hand; it was a short-lived pressure, for he couldn't very well handle both the wheel and the gear box with one hand, but a warm, comforting solace at any rate. He had nice hands, she noted, not for the first time, and long, quick fingers. It entangled with hers in easy tranquillity.

A little after nine they stopped in some lay-by area to eat Kaito's sandwiches and drink some coffee. They did not stay over a quarter of an hour, since they had a long way to go, and as they got back in the car Kaito remarked, "You should get some sleep now. We'll drive for hours." He gave her a strict look. "Especially if you intend to relay me later."

"Alright," Aoko murmured, though if was easier said than done. It was still relatively early, and despite her long sleeping-in mornings the notion of napping was foreign to her. The car was dark, but the headlamps of those they drove by swept over them at irregular intervals; plus, the dashboard's thousand little bulbs were blinking confusedly, blurringly, before her half-lidded eyes… the roar of the car was a gentle one, purring and lazy, buzzing against her temple.

She fell into an odd state of half-sleepiness, never quite awake, never quite out and dreaming, but balancing between the two, strange colours and stranger shapes dancing in her vision. They must be dreams, or half-dreams, for she was not troubled by them. At times she was lost in them, travelling à la Alice in a world much like reality, but not quite close enough to be really; at others she was intensely, accurately aware of her surroundings, perceiving and magnifying with odd, see-through clarity the thousand details of the highway, the car's insides, the red-and-gold dashboard.

It was during one of these moments that, from the windowscreen, she passed—a logical course—on to the driver. Kaito was driving rather quickly, but not (as she had somewhat expected from him) so recklessly as to risk their necks with every strike. He looked expert at it, and for a second of time she wondered when he had ever learnt to drive. She had about two years earlier, and he had helped her plenty with the code, so he must already have known then. He looked as though he had done this for ages.

He drove on, one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear box, sometimes gulping down a mouthful of coffee from the thermos. His eyes were mostly fixed ahead, and when he glanced away it was only briefly, and often—it seemed—at her. It made for a strange impression, to think that they were both watching each other without owning it.

Another strange thing was how different he looked from the usual image she had harboured of him. As a boy he had been lanky and show-off, and he was still rather tall and lean, and certainly had lost nothing of his enthusiasm and demonstrativeness; but he no longer was a boy. Maybe it was the action he was involved in, or the subdued, particular light, that changed him so to her eyes. In any case he was grown. Sometime along the few years that separated them from high school, her best friend—whose six-years-old dimpled smile still played vivid in her mind—had turned into a man, here fully enhanced by the dim lights and the beautiful, roaring night, and she had seen nothing of it.

He looked sharply at her, and a moment's panic bubbled up.

But he reached backwards, extracted a quilt from the backseat, and stretched it across her lap; he must think she was asleep. (And maybe she was, maybe she was dreaming, maybe gently dozing in the creased folds of wool.) Satisfied, Aoko allowed herself to fully close her eyes, allowed tide after tide of darkness and sleep to wash her over and away.

--

She opened her eyes to stillness. Not absolute stillness, though, for nothing can be absolutely still when the highway's roar is still ringing in one's ears, but still about her. Also the light was brighter. The car was stopped, and Kaito was leaning across her and rummaging in the gloves compartment.

"Where are we?" she mumbled, not yet quite awake.

He straightened up instantly, wallet in hand. "In a pull-in again. I thought we'd take a break."

She rubbed her eyes, yawning a little. "What time is it?"

"A little after one," he admitted, fishing banknotes out of the wallet. "You can stay in the car and sleep some more if you'd rather. I'll buy us coffee and something to eat for tomorrow morning." But she shook her head and unlocked the door, stretching her legs out.

"I'll come too. I need the walk."

Drinking coffee by the store's large illuminated windowpane—gold within, blue without—the coffee black and the sugar brown; dissolving; gone; only the sweetness remained. Kaito was at the counter, filling the thermos and buying breakfast. From time to time, a truck roared, or a car engine started, or paused by the fuel pump, and the inside broke in on the outside: sweeping gold into dim blue—fading. Aoko turned her spoon in her coffee mug and watch the little swirl wane out on itself.

"All done here," Kaito commented at last, setting down the filled thermos and a white paper bag on the table. "Are you ready?"

"Yes—let me finish my coffee first," she murmured, sipping at it. From one corner of the barstand, four men in overalls were sneering, not unkindly, at her, and they seemed to imply something across the distance that she could not fully grasp at, should blame lay on the late hour or the soothing warmth of her hands coiled about her mug. "Why are they looking at us that way?" —spoken low.

Kaito, as per usual, laughed it off. "They're probably all taking us for a couple eloping away from a distressing father. Well—" as she downed her hot drink, and grabbing her hand, "no reason to dissuade them. C'mon, it's almost two."

He got in the car driver-side. "Wait, wait," Aoko protested, standing in the bright of the flashing headlamps. "We agreed I'd drive the second half of the way. I slept. You need to get some rest, or we'll end up in a ditch."

"Nah, that's okay," said he, patting the seat beside his. "I can go on a little longer. We'll switch later, if you really want us to—anyway, there's the way back, too. Get in," he insisted, as she just stood in the way, hesitant and thoughtful. "Just a little longer, I swear."

Just a little longer, Aoko thought, returned to the crooked comfort of her seat, as they swept away from the lay-by area and onto the long glistening ribbon of the highway, and that became a routine, a refrain, a mantra that accompanied her—a little longer, said the continual rolling of the car's tires on the road—a little longer, said the crackling radio, which Kaito had turned up but clearly didn't listen to­—a little longer, said the passing cars, rising from smoke and shadow and moulding instantly back into it, leaving nothing behind them but the ghost image of their gone brilliance,—a little longer, a little longer.

She caught herself up as she felt herself sinking. 'I must not sleep,' she thought, blinking dazedly. 'Whatever happens, I must not sleep. A little way from now, I will tell Kaito I'll definitely take the wheel the rest of the way. Just a little longer—a little longer.'

When she woke up, it was by Kaito's shaking her shoulder. It was daylight.

Not exactly daylight. The early predawn lights were but a pale grey, but it still made Aoko spring up in her seat. "You let me sleep," she exclaimed, accusingly, as Kaito straightened up and stuck his hands in his pockets, grinning. "I can't believe—I was supposed to—"

"I know," he said, soothingly. "But you looked so peaceful, drolling on the cushions—" she angled out a kick at his shin— "I wasn't tired at all. It's fine, Aoko—really it is. It's better you rested who were tired, than I who wasn't."

"Then at least I get to drive the rest of the way," said Aoko, scrambling for a watch, time—control.

He scratched his cheek. "That won't be necessary."

"Why not?" she snapped. "You can't think of continuing—"

"Not that. We're here."

The morning was all whites and pastels, and the sky oiled clouds, behind which the barely-risen sun was but a slightly brighter blur, knotted and satin-like that frayed away into non-significance. With the air so pure came the cool and fine of such a dawn, the cotton-soft quality that muffles all sound. Across the road, the shrine's walls extended long and low and off-white, offering the seclusion and quiet due to those who retired in either meditation or death.

"We're too early," Aoko commented. "It won't be open yet."

Kaito made a soft, disapproving sound. "I don't think so. I called in yesterday afternoon to make sure, and the priest in charge told me it'd be no problem at all if we arrived early. The shrine officially opens at seven, but apparently they can make exceptions."

The double wooden doors were, in fact, just opening, and the priest who stood at them invited them in with a calm smile and calmer eyes. It was he whom Kaito had spoken to over the phone the day before; he professed himself happy to welcome them in, touched that they had come such a long way, and offered to help them find the tomb. After a moment's hesitation, Aoko declined. The shrine, if she recalled well, was relatively small, so they shouldn't have too much trouble on their own, and she disliked the idea that, kind though he was, a stranger should indicate her to where her mother lay, in the manner of a guide in a museum.

It was, at any rate, a beautiful place. When one had left behind the low-footed, porched, stooped buildings, the tombs rose amid grass and sparse trees on each side of the cobbled paths. Scarcely any sound was heard but that of the wind; and the wind itself blew mellow, speaking of peace and silence and the sweetest sleep. It was a beautiful place, and sometime along the walk Aoko's hand had gotten entangled with Kaito's again like a fallen leave.

They found the grave at the foot of a grassy slope, at the top of which the view was predictably more than a little pretty. It was held captive in its shadow for the time being, but the sun, in rising above the hill, must meet it later on in the day; this alternative cause the vegetation here to grow fairly at profusion.

There Aoko let go of Kaito's hand.

She never did tell him afterwards what she prayed and told her mother, kneeling there. Kaito guessed, as far as he allowed himself to, that it involved first her father, then herself and her college life, and then—if he correctly interpreted the furtive glance she sent him at one point, only half-seeing him—himself. He addressed a few words, in thought if not in speech, to the mother of his best friend, whom he had never met, and whose resemblance to Aoko, as seen in pictures, had never particularly struck him, thus making promises he had every intention to keep.

It was a while before either of them straightened, and the light was considerably brighter. They had not brought any flowers, which might wilter along the way, but Aoko lit an incense stick, and left a box of _mochi_, which had been one of her mother's favourite sweet treats. After this they left.

They were silent on the way, speech appearing far too insufficient to express thought. It was only when they had returned to the small cluster of buildings that Aoko looked back on that part of the shrine they had just strolled past, misty and green and Avalon-like, and breathed out on a sigh, "It _is_ a beautiful place."

"It is," Kaito agreed, but thoughtfully. The much-expected visit, for which they had travelled through the night, had passed by them much like a dream, in less than an hour; and it left him in a giddy state, an impatience of things half-finished. Only Aoko's following words at last roused him.

"You did see pictures of my mother before, Kaito? didn't you?"

"Why—yes," said he, recovering. "Of course. Why do you ask?"

Aoko's eyes were focused on something over his shoulder, something he dared not turn to look at. "Do you think she looked like me?"

This demanded reflection. "… not much," he admitted. 'She was smaller and rounder than you—but you've got her mouth, and the same type of hair," he added, to be perfectly fair. Why all the thousand questions, Aoko?"

With a start, she re-focused. "When I was about thirteen—nine years ago that makes," she commented fondly, "I started leafing through an old photo album of my parents'. My dad was with me on the sofa, and my mom's wedding dress looked so pretty… I looked up to ask him something, or tell him something, and he was crying." (She was, too—smiling, and this time looking straight ahead, straight at Kaito.) "I'd never seen him cry before."

He reached out and pulled her against him, where she fitted easily, both arms going round his waist in a snug embrace. "He told me lots about the two of them that day. How they'd met, what a bookworm she was, how they kept meeting in university, how their first date went—"

"How'd it do?" Kaito mouthed, muffledly and in her hair.

"Terrible," she said with a hiccupping laugh. "He'd forgotten his wallet, so she had to pay for the two of them. He said that when he brought her back to her car he thought she'd never want to see him again, much less go out with him again, but she did. She kissed him." The tears were still running running freely, but she was smiling still, bright as the curve of the sun over the horizon. "… he said he would have done anything for her," she whispered. "Anything."

His arm travelled from around her shoulders to the small of her back; pressing her close, closer, burying his nose in unruly—even more so from sleeping on the way—black locks. "Like driving her all night through the country in a cramped car whenever she'd need it?"

Aoko's breath hitched. "And drinking bad coffee in end-of-the-road dusty stores," she gasped, snuggling closer still. "Yes. That too."

Kaito chuckled a little.

--

The priest was still standing at the large wooden doors when they reached them, tired yet cleansed. His smile had not wavered, nor did it while he asked. "I hope you found the tomb you were seeking without difficulties."

"None at all," Aoko said, smiling at him. "Thank you for opening so early for us."

"That was no trouble at all. Have a good trip back."

Kaito was repeating her thanks, and moving forwards to go through the door, when Aoko tugged him back. "Look," she mouthed, pointing, and all three turned east-ward.

The sun—was rising. It was rising, slow and steady, above the slove of the steep hill, into the clearing whites of the sky; and it shone over the long stretches of grass and blooming trees, reflecting brilliantly off the white-washed building walls, illuminating, as it was, the small, retired shrine with all the glorious shine of the promising day.

"It _is_ a beautiful place," Kaito murmured under his breath.

And as they turned once more to go, the smallish car parked across the lane, the priest's cheerful goodbye, Aoko's grabbing the car keys and muttering "_I'll_ drive this time," and Kaito's subsequent chuckle, and the dusty, ribbon-like road back home, all seemed drenched in the fine, beautiful light that brought on sun and joy and morning.

--

**That was a strange piece to write and stranger to type. There are few stories which I feel made me grow up a little, in mind and writing, and this was one of them. That's all that needs to be said, really.**


	19. Tomorrow, Yesterday, Today

**A/N:** A bunch of people were demanding the return of nekomata!Kaito. I complied, but it turned out… a lot different from the cute-and-waffles oneshot I'd originally planned. Instead you get some nostalgia, a lot of background, and some rather obscure foreshadowing. It's also drastically short, as I felt this was the right length, in the end. There really isn't anything to add.

Dedicated most particularly, with my heartfelt excuses for the lateness, to **Halfling Rogue**, who reminded me neko!Kaito even existed oh-so-long ago, and to **The Pen In Penguin**, who's been… _repeatedly_… asking for more instalments this last month.

**Disclaimer: **I own a pair of cat-ears and a cat-tail. Everything in between is Gosho's. The title is taken from the same poem the quotation is from.

..

**To-morrow, Yesterday, To-day**

..

_Like love we don't know where or why, _

_Like love we can't compel or fly, _

_Like love we often weep, _

_Like love we seldom keep. _

—W. H. Auden, _Law Like Love_

..

Wake up, _his brother said once. _Wake _up_. That's it. Open your eyes. Good. Stay awake. Yes, that's right, move your hands—fingers… good… that's _very_ good. Look at me. That's right. This is me. It's good to see each other at last, isn't it?

..

When he slept, when he dozed off on the couch with fitful sneezes, he dreamt, sometimes. Often sleep was nothing more than a grey blur, static crinkling like aluminium on the edges of his conscience; sometimes he did not remember anything at all, and woke after hours with the asserted conviction that but a second had elapsed.

But sometimes he dreamt. And his dreams were wild and fruitful.

..

Hello. _His brother's face had been huge, extremely close, with pools of water in lieu of his eyes. He had been so close he could discern every single pore, every single crease, every single hair of his eyebrows and every single eyelash; so close, so close he had shuddered and cowed, because this was his face, too. He had wondered if every single pore—and crease and hair and eyelash—were the same between them, if, should they link hands, they would fit more surely than the two halves of a sphere, the two parts of a whole. _Can you hear me?

Yes.

..

He liked to watch Aoko sleep. Aoko-at-night was never the same, while day-Aoko was one and whole, unchanging in her smiles and occasional exasperation; but Aoko-at-night was on this side of different, on this side of the water, in the sea that was her bed. Her face moved dreamlessly, little twitches of the mouth and flutters of the eyelashes, and sometimes—when he was lucky enough, and silent enough, and patient enough—he would hear the small noises she made as she dreamt, at last. They were sighs, and faint moans, and Aoko's hands gripped the bedsheets before they relaxed.

Kaito would watch, silent and still, back straight like an Egyptian cat, ears twitching in rhythm with Aoko's little pained night-noises. He would match his heartbeat to Aoko's shivers, and the soft of his palms to Aoko's biting fingers. He would stay, quiet, watchful, always.

..

_His brother had laughed, then, and ruffled his hair affectionately. _Don't I wish, cat-boy—I could show you around… it would be nice. We'd sit up with tea and talk all night long.

_Yes, he'd liked to talk—hadn't he always? So beautiful, the words, shaping into thin air, like the paper animals he had shown him once, folded between bony, long fingers—shown him how to handle the creases, the colours and the words. It made sense. He would watch the paper animals for hours._

I'll bring you some paper next time, _his brother had said_, and then you can invent some for yourself.

..

Aoko always reached out first. Her fingers would be long and thin and soft, and startlingly cool, as they curled around his wrist. She would whimper, always, a quiet, broken sound he almost wouldn't hear at all, and pull slightly, with a gentle whine; and Kaito would unravel, would furl himself around her like a leaf, an immense autumn leaf, and bury his face in the crook of her neck.

He was heavy, surely, but Aoko never complained. They would smooth around one another's angles, when the hours crumbled into morning, together: their corners would not be so sharp-edged, and their bones would not be so funny, nor quite so pointy. They would fit like baby siblings, like cubs, like pups, with the soft murmuring fur of kittens.

He would sleep, at last, a sleep that was never so agitated as it was when he was on the couch's rough fabric. He would sink. He would be, unexpectedly, content. He would drown.

..

That's a scarf, _his brother had said. _It is soft, isn't it? And so red. Remember the girl I told you about, last time? she made it for me. She gave it to me.

_He had run his fingers alongside the fabric, quietly fascinated. Everything had been so grey, here, so grey, only softened by the blues and whites of the corners. This had been something else. So beautiful. So bright. _So red_, his brother had said. So red, he had thought, and for some reason he had dropped the scarf to the floor, and stuck his fingertips in his mouth as though burnt._

It's alright. Oh, Kaito, Kaito, it's alright. C'mere. I'm not mad at you. Nobody's mad at you, not here. We _love_ you. You know that, don't you? It's alright, I'm here. I'm here.

I'm here, _his brother said, but his brother always left._

..

He would wake alone. He would wake, and panic blindly for a minute—panic, because he had fallen asleep into the soft of Aoko, and the soft was gone and _Aoko_ was gone—but then he would smell the acre coffee, and the hot-buttered cocoa, and he would wander into the kitchen and drape himself around Aoko's shoulders.

"Hi, you," she would grumble, elbowing him in the ribs.

"Whassaaaaaaaat," he'd drawl out, and then, eyes lighting up, "_Toast!" _and chuckle to himself like a boy.

"Yes, toast," Aoko would groan. "Now go on, go. Set up the table, Kaito, and if you juggle with the glasses again I'll strangle you—quit that thing with your tail, it tickles."

And sometimes, right in the middle of coffee and toasting, between one bite of bread and another, Aoko would look at him—simply _look_—and smile so brightly Kaito just wanted to drop everything and tackle her to the ground with a hug. (And often did, too, breakfast and all the toast in the world notwithstanding—Aoko was better.)

..

_When his brother had gone, Kaito would return to the paper animals. He would watch them, fascinated by their fragile flares and strange folds, as though they had fitted with the air. They had been beautiful, all of them, all paper wrinkles in bright colours, brighter than all greys and whites._

_He wondered if they could think, if they could talk—if, should he turn his back on them for a minute, they would began moving, would bustle around their new-created lives, and, maybe, when he came back—they wouldn't even be there anymore, would disappear, would face, in thin air, as though they had never been there at all._

_He wondered if they even knew they were paper animals._

_.._

**End Notes:** If this isn't background, I don't know what is. Also, remember Fishy Antics, the Little Mermaid parody I left unfinished last summer? I plan to complete it by June. Anyone who cares has every permission to whack me over the head if I run late. Thank you.


End file.
